


The Definition of Valor

by troll_under_the_bridge



Series: Definition [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Bigotry & Prejudice, Drama, Flashbacks, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Personal Crisis, Politics, Post-War, Romance, Secrets, Slow Build, Superpowers, Team Dynamics, Telepathy, Trust Issues, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troll_under_the_bridge/pseuds/troll_under_the_bridge
Summary: The world Charles used to know will never be the same again. Many debts are owed, debts that can never be fully repaid. One thing is certain: a great fight for peace is not over yet.





	1. Island

 

 

 

 

The ocean was humming in his ears. Clean, salty smell of water and light breeze filtered in as well as sharp, stinging pain in his foot. Charles drew in a pained hiss, as his eyes focused on the pale sea urchin, barely visible on white sand, whose spines went deep into the instep of his right foot.

Confused, he stumbles back, and though he doesn’t quite lose his balance, he is dangerously close to it.

What is he doing here? On the beach? How come?

His eyes take in the faint yellow hue spreading up from the line of horizon, merging with the deep blue of the night sky. Moons are already losing their dominion. Their outlines are becoming thin and gentle. The ocean sighs and Charles groans and does drop on one knee.

He twists his neck back when he hears the rustle, and a hybrid stops right on the spot, as though Charles has developed the ability to freeze time. He never did. He can’t even get into the creature’s chaotic, yet awfully simplistic mind. A general impression of something he interprets as anxiety is the only thing his telepathy can conceptualize.

“I’m alright,” Charles says, as he feels pain and numbness spreading through his foot and immediately recognizes what it entails.

The hybrid stays unnervingly silent, watching Charles with all of its glinting eyes. Its front limbs are hovering over the sand.

“Though, I’d appreciate some help,” he gives up then because pain is spreading too fast to his liking.

The hybrid is by his side that instant and Charles berates himself for flinching at the other’s touch. The creature is nothing but careful and gentle, helping him get rid of the urchin.

“Be careful,” stutters Charles a bit too late, but then realizes that his warning is uncalled for.

“Needn’t worry, Master’s Friend,” gurgles the hybrid proudly, casually handling the urchin. “Thick skin.”

“How many times should I ask you to call me Charles?”

“Aren’t you Master’s Friend?”

“I’m not the person you’re taking me for,” Charles closes his eyes, suddenly nauseous. “I hope your lot didn’t wake up Erik because of this. Ah, yes. Of course, you did.”

He hears Erik’s worried mental call in his head as clear as if Erik is speaking right beside him. Charles looks back at the villa in the distance. Lights are on.

_I stepped on the urchin. Sorry, that you had to wake up._

He doesn’t get an immediate reaction and this is a testimony of all that legendary mental training the Eisenhardts are so proud of. And, well, Erik has been good at giving him space. Actually, he has asked quite a few times if Charles is fine with living in the same house. Charles feels that his mind is dangerously close to jumping in the cursed loop, so he forces himself back into the reality of dilating pain and pulsing nausea.

_I need an antidote._

He formulates a thought, though it might not be necessary, because Erik never forgets about this stuff.

_Also, I probably need some shoes._

Erik responds with a wordless, amused bit of emotion.

As hybrid and he sit there in silence, watching Erik and another one of the spidery lifeguards crossing the sand, Charles marvels at what has happened to him. He went to bed when the second moon showed up. And then, he finds himself, clad only in his pajama pants, on the beach.

The rush of heat following the injection is very brief. Erik makes him put his finger on the portable scanner again, then. The readings seem to be satisfying, because Erik nods and stands up, holding out a hand.

“It shouldn’t even be here,” Erik looks at the urchin, picked up by the hybrid. “Not this season, anyway.”

Charles hums in agreement.

Where would he go, had he not been stopped by this unfortunate animal?

Supported by Erik, he limps back to the villa, eyes downcast.

He has never been sleepwalking before. Why now?

“Do you want anything to drink?” asks Erik as they enter the kitchen area.

“No, I’m good.”

“You are still a little feverish,” points out Erik, finally letting go of him.

His new job makes Erik sound the part, thinks Charles, and smiles.

“Going for a walk this early is not like you,” Erik is prodding, so very evident.

“I’m getting very lazy,” Charles huffs an awkward laugh. “Maybe, I need to change my routine. To do something out of character.”

Lying by omitting the truth is not excusable, should not be, but it comes to him faster than ever. A prick of guilt follows up.

“Out of character? For instance?”

Charles shrugs. This conversation has abruptly made a rough turn. He does acknowledge and appreciate the sweetness of monotony, all well-memorized late dinners and walks they have, the fragrance and sight of tropic plants, the air, which is always laden with ozone, the long, precious quiet.

As Erik turns to say something, one of the hybrids clicks in that otherworldly tongue of theirs, and Erik responds with a shake of his head.

“Told you to speak so that Charles could understand,” he reprimands the creature and poor hybrid drops to the floor, limbs shaking.

“Nice groveling,” Erik comments, “but unnecessary.”

“I believe, they don’t understand your sarcasm,” speaks up Charles.

“I’m strangely comfortable with it right now,” drawls Erik, picking up a glass.

Hybrids and Erik leave to start their morning training routine, which is an interesting sight if one is into mixed martial arts. Charles, after some contemplating, limps to the room he claimed as study and plugs in his tablet.

A message from Moira pops up on screen. Seeing that she and Erik are the only humans, who he has been communicating with on rather amicable terms these past two years, Charles is always glad to engage in a small talk. At the moment, though, there is a different concern on his mind.

He adjusts the armchair so that his head can rest on the cushioned top, and puts the sensor pads on his temples. At times like these, he is extremely grateful that the abilities of his mind allow him to dive deeper and process more than an average mainframe user ever could. Diving into global network lets him stretch and exercise his awareness. One more thing he actually hasn’t done for a long time. Recently, while reading about the war, he accidentally came across some odd virtual bug. Something about it caught his attention, made him look into it more closely. That is, until he discovered that it was a curiously twisted piece of code, that kept on changing again and again. Which, when he finally takes hold of it, reveals a short, enigmatic message. The promise of salvation? And what or who is “Nova”?

He immediately thinks back to Erik’s and his exchange this morning about him doing something unusual, and he cringes when he realizes that when he refers to Erik in his mind he sometimes keeps on picturing Max. Like a shadow. Except that it is so much more.

And Erik. Why isn’t Erik tired of caring? How could he insist on — Charles stomps on the dangerous thought.

He opens his eyes and closes them gain. Gentle sunlight is caressing the side of his face, which means that the sun is already up.

His foot doesn’t hurt anymore. When he puts his weight on it, it feels fine. Apprehensive of his new discovery in the virtual, Charles gets up to leave the study and completely forgets about Moira’s message.

 

 

***

 

 

 

Occludera is basically one giant holiday destination. A planet, habitable subtropics of which were housing resorts of various kind. It used to be a distant, quiet world, with minimal human presence. But, it was before the war and before that groundbreaking technology of interdimensional travel was introduced. Since then, Occludera has been turned into a great post-war rehabilitation center, accepting ships from all over the Union.

“I bought you an island here,” said Erik out of the blue, not even lifting his eyes from the control panel.  

They were entering the planet’s troposphere, their ship was just about to pierce fluffy, white clouds. Sensors were silently analyzing data, while Charles was mutely digesting the fact that his not quite enemy, not quite friend, has apparently presented him with the entire island.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “Thank you for bringing me up to date in such a timely fashion.”

“You told me you didn’t want to go home. Not yet,” Erik gave him a brief sideways glance. “You know, it’s not a big deal. You can take this ship and claim your property back any time you want.”

Charles hardly knew what to do with this kind of information. The painful sense of detachment never left. It was possible he might go back. To loyal Hank, to his estate, to the discovery he had made. Or was it? His native world was a true domain of advanced technology shouldered by an archaic system of law. In fact, should he decide to show up and stake his claim, he will, most likely, face a lengthy legal nightmare.

The ship plunged down and was hovering right above the spaceport, awaiting registration. Charles closed his eyes and almost sunk in the seat. All these minds, bright and dull, quiet and loud, were suddenly pressing on his shields. The suppressed dread was forcing its way to the surface. There was no evading it.

“An island would be nice,” he said. “Thank you.”

Erik said nothing. His mind was a still, vibrant beacon — it remained perfectly steady and soothingly familiar, and, under the circumstances, it was, perhaps, the very thing that helped Charles assert his ground. Literally.

The island was lovely, indeed. And reasonably remote from the continent.

After they put the ship in the underground hangar, Charles ventured onto the beach. He itched to take off his rough uniform, relieved that the background noise of collective consciousness was out of reach. To face a vast, empty ocean was a relief on its own. Behind him, there were rich, dark greens and browns of tropical woods. When he looked ahead, the colors he could see were blues and greens of water and sky.

“Listen, I was being unfair to you back then,” he said, sensing Erik’s approach. “I must apologize.”

Erik stopped when he came level with him.

“You have done no such thing,” Erik replied with the same unbearably strong composure. “I’m grateful you’re alive. That you’re talking to me at all. I don’t know how I would have reacted were our positions reversed. I’m even more grateful that you didn’t get to go through all these things you’ve gone through during the war.”

Charles thought back to the impressions and glimpses from Erik’s mind — naturally enough, those recollections of torture and brutality were remarkably vivid. An unpleasant idea was attached to these flashbacks, born in the depths of Charles’ mind. He was an anomaly.

“Hey,” Erik patted his back and withdrew his hand just before Charles could fully comprehend the notion of touch. “What you are thinking, it’s not —“

“How do you what I’m thinking? Am I projecting again? “

“No, not like that. I just know that look.”

Charles smiled a little. As a matter of fact, there was something grimly amusing about Erik’s and his relationship: Erik not being his old friend, not exactly, and Charles not being _the Charles_.

“You’re right,” Charles let tension bleed from his shoulders. “The war is over. This is what matters.”

Without a word, Erik looked him in the eye and Charles saw something he didn’t expect then. Hesitation. 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Where are you going?” asks one of the hybrids, smartly adding his unusual clothes and visible appearance change together.

“I’m going to the city,” Charles eyes four grey figures on the porch with contemplation. “Who is coming with me?”

On hearing his words, hybrids start clicking excitedly, peering at him with dark, glinting eyes full of all hope in the universe.

“Oh, my,” Charles sighs and then folds his arms, leveling hybrids with a shrewd look. “Listen, guys, we agreed, that you can go in turns. Since I can’t tell you apart, it’s up to you to establish a queue. By the way, this is what I hope you’re learning — how to organize your own community. This is something neither Erik nor I can do for you. Yes?”

One of them steps up.

“I want.”

These words evoke some different degree of excitement among the rest.

Straining all his senses Charles cannot detect that anything is off, but he knows that something is. Maybe, he has just learned to read their body language.   

“Is agreement mutual?” he asks, because he prioritizes prevention above all, in this case. 

A bizarre sight of big humanoid spiders with their jaws wide open could send chills down anyone’s spine. As for Charles, he is torn between being amused and exasperated.

“I guess, it is. Come along,” he says to the one who is the closest to him.

He takes a thin path circling the hill, which masks the hangar. Hybrids clean it every other day, otherwise, thick vegetation would cover it completely, so intense is its growth. Cedar smell is particularly concentrated today. Its aroma is thick and heavy, like a lingering cloud, covering the woods. It’s perfect, thinks Charles, as he looks up at the sunshine falling through the leaves.

No, wait a minute. It’s too quiet.

He stops by the hidden backdoor to the hangar and frowns.

“Where are the birds?” he asks the hybrid, trying and failing to nip the suspicion in the bud.

His question is met with a curious look in round eyes and a tilt of a bald head.

“Everyone, I know that you can hear me,” Charles says mildly. “Evidently, there should be certain limits in place, which we failed to establish. When I come back, we’re going to talk about hunting rules.”

His flyer is stationed in the far corner, just by a ventilation vault, and, since Charles doesn’t use it as often as Erik does his, it is covered up, looking like a big snowball. With hybrid’s help, Charles uncovers it and, after letting his companion crawl into the backseat, initiates a routine system check.

While his hands are busy, his mind is elsewhere. By his calculations, he will reach his destination in an hour. Erik is not expected to arrive till midnight: he’s got a shift today. There is no way he is going anywhere without at least one of Erik’s hybrids. It is beyond dispute. And Charles understands that Erik’s life has been constructed on and around such precautions. That’s why every time Erik leaves he wears a mask, which disfigures his features just enough not to be recognized as an Eisenhardt. And Charles picked up that habit as well. Telepathy could help him in most cases, but it is useless against certain species and technology, such as reconnaissance drones, for instance.

It is simple for Erik, who has decided to break up with his legacy. Though, if someone asked Charles what exactly he was hiding from, he would take his time to answer.

Out there, in the sky, the clouds are gathering: grey and ready to burst with warm rain. When Charles leads them through the thick patch, everything turns dull and lifeless for a while. Until the flyer passes the storm, and sun lights the skies again.

He lays course to Harlan, the main tourist attraction of the latitude if he is to believe local media. He dimly remembers the city as the one bursting with life. While exploring the planet and relearning what it means to be amongst thousands upon thousands of minds, he paid a visit to this city too. Actually, it was Erik who took him out on a carnival night. Charles has got a handsome backlash from all that torrent of raw desires and tipsy joy. Despite Erik’s apologies, that occasion made Charles suspect that Erik, in his misguided attempt to help him take reigns of his ability, had resorted to a sink-or-swim tactic. 

Harlan doesn’t betray his expectations.

Without a doubt, Charles has managed to restore his equilibrium at least to some extent. At the moment, he adjusts to mental noise with relative ease.

They leave the flyer in the parking zone, as flying within city limits is banned. Charles discovers that they have to use underground. He certainly doesn’t remember that, for some reason.

City park covers a gigantic area by modern city standards, but, here, far from the central worlds, land is not a luxury.

While Charles is strolling, deliberately carelessly, through the park, the hybrid is following him from the distance. Charles lets his awareness spread out. Farther and farther. He sweeps through minds gently and carefully, mindful of picking up only surface impressions. The snow-white statue of Erik in ceremonial Valkar cape catches his eye and Charles can’t help it. He pauses to take in Max Eisenhardt ХIХ, the Peacemaker, in his full glory.

“You like it?”

Charles darts a look at the long line of statues, adorning the sidewalk.

“I have mixed feelings about it,” he says honestly and turns to the young, tall woman with flaming hair.

He loses his speech momentarily.

“Oh, I know. I look just like her,” she smiles ruefully.

And indeed she does. If pictures are right, she is the splitting image of the Empress, born Jean Grey.  The impostress taken down by Eisenhardt himself in the final battle for L'har.

“I considered doing something to my hair, or getting my face refixed. If you know what I mean,” she says with sincerity common between strangers, who will never come across each other again.

Charles lowers his eyes, amazed by an unexpected and strange encounter.

“That must be very inconvenient,” he says with feeling.

“I try to look at the bright side. Sometimes, other people get strangely complacent when I ask for something,” she smirks and Charles responds in kind.

“At least, I’m not a mutant,” she adds and slightly wrinkles her nose. “That would be awful.”

Charles takes a look at her mind and swallows a question, because her mind is not just bright. It is burning in the spectrum Charles came to associate with great psychic potential. Yet, it’s dormant, as though asleep, and Charles withdraws quickly.

“I’m not from around here, so sorry for a weird question,” Charles begins, meeting her eyes. “I’m looking for a meeting spot of a kind. Is name “Nova” familiar for you?”

“Universe provides, you see,” she smiles with an odd expression. “Today, Universe has provided you with a guide. This war, it had taken so much from us, had hurt us in so many ways, that we, believers, feel the need to unite. Against the lies.”

She gestures to the statues and Charles’ skin turns cool, as if exposed to a drop of temperature.

“Only those who are aware can see the signs and find us,” she goes on. “I’m Madeline. And you?”

“Charles,” gets out Charles, and, shocked at his slip, draws in a breath.

“What did it take from you? What is it that you lost, Charles?” Madeline asks him gently.

“My life,” he says and he means it.

On the way to the rendezvous point, Madeline shares her own story. She tells Charles that her parents and her fiancé were killed in the crossfire when Herlir attacked a Union convoy. They were traders, she says. They were just coming home. Her incredible calm is what strikes Charles the most. Her mind remains full of light, her mental landscape stays serene and quiet, despite grim words spilling from her lips.

Charles feels as though he is caught is a web of a bad recurring dream, but he knows the value of confession very well. That exact feeling of being betrayed is often lingering, sometimes detaining human will and spirit for a very long time.

Together with him and Madeline there are only forty-two people there. They are sitting in the circle right on the grass, on the patch of parkland comfortably tucked between two hills. When Charles enters the range of the portable projector, he finds himself in the large, tall hall, adorned with white curtains, with a square podium in the middle. There is a projection of a speaker on that podium. The projected face gets distorted by random flashes and voice is interrupted by white noise, so Charles can’t really tell how that person looks or sounds. It must be transmitted from a great distance.

“We admitted we were made powerless,” says a voice, “that our lives were unmanageable. Our hopes and dreams, our plans, our feelings, were altered by that unlimited atrocity. Some of us reacted with rage, some humbly asked for it to stop, some tried to bargain, but did it matter?”

Charles takes a seat next to Madeline and carefully reaches out to feel the crowd. He is met with less resonated emotion than he initially expected. Mostly, all these people are just so _quiet_. One way or another, it’s not something he was hoping to hear.

“We are here together, because we’ve made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves,” continues the speaker and his words are slowly but surely charging the crowd. “We are here, because we know what lies beyond. Because there is a world filled of power that can change things, that can bring war lords to their knees, that can make the worlds collide…”

Well, Charles admits to himself, it does sound very generic, despite that initial rather interesting hook in virtual. Instead of listening, Charles is slowly yielding to his thoughts, so particularly centered on his sleepwalking episode. He reflects that he should have told Erik about it, to give a sketchy account of what happened at least.

“A Power greater than ourselves came into our world when it was on the verge of epiphany. No human or arrogant mutant can ever hope to overcome —“

Truth be told, he could fill up this whole discourse. Charles is toying with an idea to wipe his presence from everyone’s minds and disappear, and, probably, share this misadventure with Erik later. Erik will, perhaps, be slightly entertained, will propose his brand sarcasm to spice the tale. Or, he can switch to subtle interrogation mode, always picking his words carefully when around Charles, always mindful of his emotions, always on the watch.

“He is amongst us now. The Power that brought him back from the dead showed him the exact nature of wrong and right. The false heroes will fall. He will bring the traitors to justice and thus remove all their faults.”

A moment before Charles’ intention to leave cements, he stops in his tracks, truly frozen, as the voice is saying, implying something only a few living souls can know.

“He knows what transpired two years ago, for nothing can stay hidden from him. He knows that she is alive. He is searching, he is ready to triumph over the Cursed Empress and over the Valkar fraud who conspired against us all.”

 

 

***

 

 

Just as Charles touches his sensor pads, he feels a sting and hears a hiss of static. The sound faintly resembles the one he used to be witness to in the lab about a dozen times per day. Now is not the good time to malfunction, please.

Charles turns to the hybrid, loitering in the corridor by his study, too curious to leave, but too obedient to come in, and sighs a heavy sigh.

“Do you think Erik will mind if I borrow his equipment?”

The question was most likely phrased in a way, that was difficult to comprehend, understands Charles a fraction too late.

“Are you asking whether Master might get angry with you?”

“Oh,” Charles stares at the hybrid, a tad disgruntled with his own clumsy self. He doesn’t do them enough justice, it seems. “Sorry. Yes, something like that.”

Charles knows that Erik thinks his hybrids are scaring him and that’s a valid concern, seeing that they have been created with the purpose to withstand telepathic influence and, consequently, to eliminate those psionic hostilities. But this is not exactly the case. There is something else about these creatures, forever allotted to bear the burdens of the past… Something, that unsettles Charles so very deeply and jeers his mounting guilt.

“He likes you very much,” hybrid makes a show of spreading its front arm-tibias and baring fangs. “He might, but he will not.”

“Thank you,” Charles makes sure to pause and pat that lowered bare head.

Hybrids usually get rather pleased when touched by Erik, so, after melting his initial reservations, Charles decided that trying it was worth it. After all, upon seeing Charles by the lake they didn’t give any notice that they might tear off his arm, or, well, do something worse.

There are four blue spheres constantly alight around Erik’s workstation and Charles touches the one by the door to force it into brightness. Organic crystals, the spheres are cut of, react to warm touch. Charles recalls that they are said to have cleansing, almost healing qualities. He was surprised that Erik, or Max, for that matter, who never was into any décor, except for Valkar traditional attire, developed a wonderful preference for these lights.

Charles wanders around the big, circular desk, unsure where to begin looking. Erik’s desk in perfect order, as always. Charles peers over at the glazed shelves, which are displaying a variety of medical scanners and other related equipment, some of which he can’t even recognize.

If he were spare sensor pads, where would he be?

The blinking dot in the corner of the side holographic screen on the terminal is so tiny, it’s easy to miss. Still, Charles focuses on it, and he has no idea what makes him unfold the screen — what is one dubious decision of this day among many?

“It figures,” he whispers, as a stream of data lights up in front of his eyes.

Mind control, possession, mental amnesia, telepathic illusion, psionic shielding. Disorientation, mood swings, short-term memory loss, perceptual distortion, impaired language capabilities, aphasia, dissociative disorder, sleep disorder. Everything neatly referenced and ordered into interlinked categories.

It is a cruel coincidence that this is the exact moment he hears Erik’s voice in his head, senses Erik approaching from the direction of the hangar.

 _I’m in your room_ , says Charles and then adds quickly, _not the bedroom, your workshop, in case I didn’t make myself clear._

_You did now._

Erik’s mind is capable of formulating nicely distinct messages and even attaching emotional coloring, like a smile, for instance.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” starts Charles, as Erik appears around the corner. “I was looking for a spare pair of sensor pads, and I didn’t mean to, um, pry into your research.”

Erik, still wearing a plain-featured face, looks over Charles’ shoulder and cringes, coming to a stop by his desk.

“Lord, that’s unfortunate,” he says, but the absence of inflection in his voice and only the faintest coloring of guilt speak for themselves. “I mean, I can’t even guess what you might be thinking. But, let me explain, because, I swear, I harbor no malicious intent towards you.”

“I like how you single me out,” Charles slowly shakes his head, mutely wondering how similar two of them are. “What I’m thinking? I’m thinking, you’ve been researching telepathy and related ailments because you’ve made it your mission not to let anything bad happen to me again.”

“I won’t,” says Erik harshly, proving Charles right and proving his rigid, inflexible purpose.

Scanning Erik in his current state feels a lot like getting tipsy, for Erik’s demonstrative desire is intoxicating enough to both drag Charles closer and push him away.

“It’s fine. I caught a cross-reference to my father’s research, which, I thought, was buried for good. You’ve done a truly amazing job,” speaks Charles softly, because his calm reaction, instead of putting Erik at relative ease, is forcing him to wind up, instead.

“There is not enough,” is Erik’s answer. “I was on that plane of reality, in that dimension, and yet it is hardly ever mentioned in any of the chronicles. Also, telepathy is an entire subclass of mutation, which started evolving hundreds of years ago. There should be damn archives somewhere. There aren’t. My people, my Empire waged war against a telepathic alien race. And where is the data? What I know, it’s not available even with my resources.”

“Essex… Rumors are he had been studying psionics for over a century,” mutters Charles, and he hates that the sound of that name has yet to fail as an unfairly painful reminder for Erik.

Erik nods, sharply, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Charles knows that he isn’t cross, he simply can’t bear the combination of that name and Charles uttering it.

“I store them in my bedroom, actually. Sensor pads,” smirks Erik, shifting to an initial topic. “And, if you’re interested in what I found, it’s all yours. Like it meant to be. Surely, with your abilities, you can sort it out faster than me.”

“Thank you. I also need to talk to you.”

“Is anything the matter?”

Erik must have picked up something, for alert has triumphed over sadness in a heartbeat and he is coiled like a predator before the attack.

“I’ll tell you. I just need to try something, to do a trial, if I may say so.”

“Come again?”

“While you’ve been busy with my issues, I’ve been thinking of something too, which makes weird sense right now,” Charles explains, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You see, you’re absolutely right. There are probably thousands of us, telepaths, scattered all over the known universe, with varying degrees of skill and capabilities, and yet, we don’t always utilize our powers properly. What was done to you, is, to my utmost regret, not a single violation committed by a telepath. But, despite the atrocities, it made me think that there’s a whole range of possibilities we are missing — like, say, storing up, writing down a memory, an actual memory, not the construct. We tried to and we failed so many times, that it was deemed fruitless. Think about it, Erik, what if it’s not about the technology, but about choosing the conductor. And, I believe, this discovery, if made, can —“

“Can change the world,” finishes Erik and Charles experiences a strong, hot rush of pride and affection, that enhances Erik’s attention and, which, to Charles’ sudden embarrassment, brings color to his cheeks.

 

 

***

 

 

 

After dark swimming became one of Erik’s recent quirks. And, though, the dip must certainly be refreshing, Charles is watching the skyline and the moving dot that he thinks is Erik with a bit of weariness. Moons are faint tonight, therefore they hardly illuminate the ocean, as if wary of caressing its uneven waves. The ocean breathes, magnificent and desolate, a glorious observer of fleeting human passions.

Charles checks the sand for any wildlife before sitting right on the spot beside Erik’s carefully folded things. He is nursing a warm drink in his hands, a local tea he grew quite accustomed to. There can be no harm in affirming, so he casts his mind out and around: the ocean and the island are still and safe, shut off from the rest of the world. A place to dream in. One may come to doubt it even exists.

So far, Charles muses, this day has been one of the most eventful in his new life.

Coupled with his excitement, there comes tiredness, that’s why he is watching the ocean with dropping eyes.

Erik comes out from the water with some god-like grace Charles has always admired. He looks the part too. Honoring body and mind can very well be a vital part of Erik’s inherited dogmatism.

“I wanted to test whether I can record my today’s memory, but no, it didn’t work with the stuff I’ve got here,” mutters Charles, looking up at approaching Erik, half-covered in darkness.

“You need another medium?”

Erik’s shadow runs a hand through his wet hair.

“Nanomachines won’t do, I’m afraid,” Charles manages in a drowsy voice.

“Can it wait till morning?” asks Erik, rolling back his shoulders.

Charles frowns, glancing up at the starry sky doubtfully.

“Do you mind? I can show you right now.”

“I never mind you showing me stuff,” grins Erik, unfairly energized by his swim.

“Done.”

The absence of immediate verbal reaction from Erik is full of words not spoken. That’s why, he decides to wait, patient. It occurs to him that he should outlast his curiosity, should refrain from reading Erik’s mind.

“It’s safe to say, that were you not the person, who might neglect his own safety and who would insist often on venturing out, in the dark unknown, I’d be as good as dead. It’s not like I’m trying to force you to abide, far from that.”

Erik mutters the rest harshly, standing immobile and watching his face.

“But, I will ask you, still. Can you, please, let me be there for you?”

The serene stillness and lulling cadence of waves become crashing. Something long overdue is taking place right here, right now. As Charles slowly lifts his eyes, a few stray thoughts come, get startled and leap away, but, when he finally does meet Erik’s eyes, Erik looks away.

Far away, above the horizon, a thin red line crosses the sky. The impeccable night sky seems to be stained with a malicious smother.

“Better be safe than sorry,” Erik bends to pick up his stuff. “If something strange and potentially dangerous is in the works, it’d better be crushed sooner rather than later.”

He speaks like a warlord that he is, and this way of thinking is natural, just like his honed combat style and the way he carries himself.

“What if they are just, you know, like-minded individuals looking for a therapy. For an outlet. I saw such amounts of grief in each of them.”

“However, it made you worried. I see why. That speech. It’s disturbingly reminiscent of something. Or someone,” points out Erik. “’Post-war world is always extremely fragile: while the agreements seem temporary and weak, the wounds are fresh and not closing as fast as expected.’ This a quote from my mentor on war strategy. She was very explicit about keeping civilian population under control during and even after structural reconstructions. A frugal, commoner’s mind cannot defend itself, she would say.”

“Well, if it’s not condescending, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, indeed. But, she was right. A little cheap oratory, a half-mystic and glorious ceremony, certain preliminary lead-up — and the blood is spilling.”

Reluctant, yet trying to be impartial, Charles thinks back to Madeleine and the rest of them with regret.

“I, no — we,” Charles corrects himself. “We will investigate.”

“Of course,” recaps Erik.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Evasion

 

 

 

Morning sun is spilling all over the ocean. The character of the day is shining through, establishing unveiled, bold brightness. Charles draws his attention back when he sees a white stripe of rocky coastline far in the distance. The city is waiting for them on the other side of the archipelago.

By his side, Erik is switching off autopilot and putting down the sunscreen.

“Would you?” he addresses Charles and Charles wordlessly readjusts his seat and grabs the controls.

“Are you worried?” asks Erik.

“Yes,” Charles admits quietly, as he changes the altitude to lead the flyer over the patch of dark green woodland. “I’ve been thinking about what I heard and I’m worried these Nova recruits might be coming after you.”

Erik sneers as though they are talking about him partaking in a fun bet.

“I can’t say I expected a different reaction,” sighs Charles, not pleased with dismissal, but strangely soothed by Erik’s current lack of gravity at the same time.

“Really? Oh, Charles. You should know me too well by now not to be surprised by these things. I’ve made more enemies across the living universe than any of my predecessors, which is quite an achievement,” contemplates Erik mockingly. “And this peacemaking agenda is rather spectacular. And ironic. Don’t you think?”

“You are proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I can allow myself to be.”

Charles knows this, so he only smiles slightly, dropping the flyer down, just below the patch of puffy clouds.

Two light patrol ships are passing by, all four guards are chatting among themselves, apparently. Their minds are brimming with lazy, subdued thoughts with occasional smudge of brightness.

Erik can’t help thinking, as usual, that patrol needs to be more focused and at least pretend to scan their vessel and Charles, as usual, tries to cheer them up with a mental tap on the back. Their routine can be very tiresome. A little mood boost won’t hurt in any case.

The clamor of conscience echoes even before he lays his eyes on the fine array of spherical buildings and beautiful, large, multilevel gardens.

“Well, this city is even more crowded than yesterday,” notes Charles with some measure of surprise.

“Did you forget what day it is?”

He becomes aware of what is going on in the background of Erik’s mind — Erik is thinking, rather distinctly and loudly, that Charles seems distracted, more aloof than usual.

Charles, who never thought that “aloof” might ever be attributed to him, feels defensive. But, well, he understands that Erik is just being brutally honest. Erik is also pinning his worry between his heated pre-investigation anxiety and a warm tickle of nostalgia, which brings him back to the days he had to use his reconnaissance skills to plot and do some deeply nefarious stuff Charles truly regrets he has glimpsed.

As for Charles, he’s really forgotten that today is the Reminiscence Day. Two years ago the inter-galactic war, beginning of which he has missed, has ended. And exactly two years ago he drowned in Moira’s lake. Or didn’t he? That part was still very complicated.

“Charles?”

Erik’s tone rings urgent. Oh my, he is extremely distracted, indeed.

Charles snaps back to the real world, suddenly much darker than before, and, for a brief instant, he can’t realize what’s wrong, until he can and all blood rushes from his face.

The shadow is eclipsing Harlan just from the direction they are approaching, dark disk swallowing bright tropical sun and devouring the light. A massive space station follows. The wrongness strikes Charles with electric shock, because this construction belongs on the orbit.

He peers at the flyer’s control panel flashing red warning lights, while he almost automatically starts an evasive maneuver trajectory.

“Is it falling?” Charles gasps, perhaps unnecessary, and quickly calculates the odds.

Erik is staring at the ground, right at the summer terraces and lovely gardens. Charles doesn’t need to look, for he is bombarded with enough confusion and dread as it is. They both think in unison: those people down there won’t make it.

The idea, which lights up Erik’s mind, the image of him stretching his powers to the limit resonates with Charles and he wordlessly sends Erik his _yes_ and sends their flyer right down there on top speed, in the center of the large dark shadow. It goes without saying that Erik will need any help he can get and Charles is more than willing to do it.

Though, Erik might not think so.

“Charles, you get away—”

“Please, let’s not argue about this.”

What did Erik expect? That Charles would escape alone?

As they land on some random rooftop, large and small fiery fragments of station begin to rain down the city. Charles exhales through the spike of pain and panic, his and not his, fighting for the right balance. While Erik helps him out of the flyer, he feels like he is overseeing the chorus of scared and shocked, and amongst their screams he forces himself to twine his mind to Erik’s.

The air he inhales burns his airways like acid. He plants his feet on the roof, tilts his head up, faces the nightmarish, burning blackness.

_What’s wrong?_

Erik is damn shrewd, but there is hardly anything wrong, seeing as they are seconds away from being crushed to death, swept away by sheer force upon impact. Even heavens are pressing down on them with deadly pressure. It’s a weird feeling that Erik and he have done this before that puts talons into his heart.

“Let’s do this,” he screams through increasing noise, both for his sake and for Erik’s and clasps Erik’s hand.

The sirens weeping in his ears turn off, as he focuses his every straining sense on Erik and Erik’s power. Which feels like rings on water. Spreading out. Charles carefully, oh so carefully steps in, and the familiarity of Erik’s mind helps.

Erik’s unprecedented trust lays his mindscape flat and bare, for him to tap into Erik’s powers to boost Erik’s potential in one single try. Precautions damned, he reaches for Erik, opening up his own reserves and fusing their energy together. It’s like piloting a ship, a battle vessel. It’s like being a battle ship, being Erik, feeling Erik with every fiber of his being. The amount of power it gives is unmanageable, almost out of control, and it wants to move so much, in a myriad of ways, that Charles lets it.

For him a moment stretches infinitely long. He is the one with Erik. And Erik is the one with him.

Then, everything explodes inwards, pulling his and Erik’s fused consciousness into a black hole. And then — Charles and Erik disappear. Instead, _the one_ is raising his hand to the sky and the mass of metal, coated in fire and smoke, halts.

The homeostasis formed is fragile, so the one quickly casts his mind through the station, finding dead and dying, burned out minds in its ways, their last convulsive jolts yelling of agony and assault.

The mounting strain is great, the depletion is soon to follow. Charles momentarily looks through Erik’s eyes: the frigates and fighters have started arriving through dimensional void up above the space station. The skies are filling with ships coming to a rescue. Erik senses a dozen drones circling them from a distance. Charles thinks they have given them enough time. Around him and Erik, the magnetic field is twisted to the extent that Charles observes them inside of a sphere, which almost obliterated the part of roof they are standing at.

He lets their united consciousness expand and hold the metal mass above. Charles feels how Erik’s reserves are getting fainter, how he struggles to maintain control with a singular plight.  

Meanwhile, Charles knows that a landing party has infiltrated the station command center. They are working on deployment. They managed to revive the anti-gravitational generator just in time. Charles gently withdraws from Erik’s mind and Erik instantly leans on him with all his weight.

_We did it. You did it._

Charles wraps his arms around him, takes a deep breath, mentally enfolding gasping Erik in soothing emotion and gratitude. Erik is pale, seems on the verge of passing out. Veins on his temples are so prominent as though they are trying to crawl away. He fails to put up a block at once, so part of Erik’s exhaustion has bled over, making his heartbeat uneven and making his head hurt as he shares a tail end of Erik’s backlash.

The worst part is other, thinks Charles, watching the patrol approaching them. Why does he feel so on edge, then?

 

 

***

 

 

Nobody says it out loud, not yet, but every single member of emergency rescue party is thinking it — _is a new war coming?_ Charles is listening to clamor with one ear, for the most part he is carefully scanning the minds of paramedics, who are taking care of Erik.

They are practically on the same spot. Charles had to come down from the thrashed rood on the green terrace, before supporting Erik became harder and harder. Then, medics popped up and Charles was politely shushed away from the portable stretcher they put Erik on to commence the scanning. So he is trying to catch Erik’s eyes in the gap between the medics’ backs, but Erik’s gaze is dull, unfocused. He overhears about changes in functional brain connectivity. The medics are worried, who wouldn’t be, but they are not very alarmed about Erik’s condition. It gives Charles hope.

Mobilized guards are still cleaning the area from all that rubble, which did some damage, but, thankfully didn’t kill anyone. There are only a dozen injured, which is a wonder if Charles has ever seen any.

The dead mass of the station is still suspended by anti-grav up above their heads, obscuring the sun.

“Are you related?” one of them, an old woman in green uniform, turns to Charles.

“Yes,” he nods and understands that he has been given a permission to come closer.

He steps up to Erik and Erik even turns his head in Charles’ direction and struggles to say something.

_Please, don’t strain yourself. I’ll handle this._

“I need your help to log his condition and identity before we transfer him to the nearest hospital.”

Erik groans something unintelligible. Charles doesn’t need to read his mind; luckily, he knows him well enough to recognize that as a “no way in hell” groan.

Charles takes Erik’s hand and squeezes it, while subtly altering the minds of the medical team, plucking the notion of hospitalization away. Erik closes his eyes and his tightly pressed mouth twitches slightly, as though he would smirk if he could.

“The patient will need rehabilitation to restore damaged neural pathways,” she reports, prompted by Charles.

“Why can’t he move his left hand?”

“The paralyses is temporary,” she says with encouragement. “We have better equipment in the,” she stutters, “well, all body systems are currently trying to recover and recompense for the backlash.”

“Excuse me, but what power was that? You did that? He is a mutant, right?” a young nurse chimes in, the one whose trepidation and awe equal her worry.

“He is a telekinetic,” says Charles, smiles pleasantly, and diverts everybody’s further attention from the subject.

“I’ll give him an injection to restore some motor functions,” the medic says and Charles nods.

He gives her a soft nudge and she addresses one of her team.

“Fetch FMR package and bring it here quick,” she smiles to Charles. “That settles it. Make sure he gets injection every 12 hours.”

Charles takes a package with a thank you, slightly conscious of his manipulations. They seem like decent people, who truly want to help, but he can’t have Erik’s cover blown. He has already revealed enough, all but spelling his real name in the sky for those who know him well or might be looking for him.

_I’m taking you back home. If I remember correctly, you’ve got a state of the art med pod stashed somewhere. Is it functional?_

Erik sends him a _yes_ , faint and weary.

Charles senses another patrol ship approaching, the guards very eager to talk to strange people, who have been previously noticed on the roof. He spares himself a conversation and they turn their vessel back, ready to report to superiors that people in question have already been taken to the hospital.

He asked one of medics to help him and, though, Erik can more or less stand up on his own now, Charles feels that he himself is also getting tired pretty fast.

When in the flyer, Erik leans back into his seat with immense satisfaction. Charles touches his bared forearm lightly.

“I’ll be alright, Charles,” he gets out, voice scratchy.

His face is still devoid of colour, yet he can speak now and that soothes Charles’ worry a tiny bit.

“I observed something odd up there. Give me a minute to take one more look and then we go. Fine?”

“Whatever you want,” slurs Erik as injection kicks in full force and Charles notes that his mindscape gets foggy.

Charles huffs a little, giving away his fraying nerves. However, he foresees, he can’t relax yet, because they are going to reap the sprouts of their spontaneous decision and soon. He rubs tension from his temples, a simple trick, which he finds very helpful if it comes to easing muscle stiffness and the beginnings of a headache.  

As he casts his powers out, he’s focusing on the insides of the space station. It might be truly said that an investigative team working inside has never faced anything like that. Charles chooses to look through the eyes of Sambit, a young security officer, just recently promoted to a sergeant.

A young man is zipping up the last bodybag, which is lined up in the row next to the sliding door in the main corridor. He hates being on corpse duty, he’d rather be sweeping the city for any suspicious activities and talking to witnesses.

To make it worse, the technicians didn’t bother switching off a top alert mode, so red lights are pulsing everywhere. The air inside of the station, which he breathes through a filter, smells of metal and acid. The corpses’ features are all terribly twisted. The blue-skinned humanoid he’s just logged in, had a dark tongue sticking out of his crooked mouth, with eyes bulging unnaturally. Nobody is otherwise injured. His guess would be a seizure or a toxic gas, but a massive group seizure seems like a bizarre idea. Moreover, dispatched probes show no residue in the air, except for little dust and perfectly healthy chemical composition.

Before Charles resolves to retreat, he does a swipe check, searching for any high-ranking officer. All this doesn’t settle well with him: if they have no telepath on the team, it might take them some time before they find a major clue. In the end, he opts for a small suggestion to the lady, who seems to be coordinating everything from the bridge. He plants a suggestion to ask any telepath to double check the crew. Theoretically speaking, last moments of a recently deceased victim might be seen, even replicated for others by a skilled psionic.

Feeling that he’s accomplished everything he could have done, Charles gets ready to raise his shields. Just as he tries, a sharp, raw needle all but tears through his defense. Charles recoils as though burnt — something red flashes before his inner eyes. He tries to shield himself again, this time with better success.

Reeling from the sneak attack, he comes to his senses and releases a shaky breath. That he didn’t expect. However, he should have. Whoever has done that to the crew has not gone far.

On his right, Erik is striping himself to the seat. That’s how it is. Charles was gone for mere seconds for him.

Void of any thoughts for an instant, he doesn’t comprehend it when Erik asks him something, in a language he can’t understand.

“Sorry?”

Erik trains his bloodshot eyes on him, until he curses and grimaces, as his distress hits Charles with a delicacy of an iron fist.

“Can’t focus on proper words,” he says very slowly.

Charles reproaches himself, instantly jumpstarting an engine and making a way to the breach in the sky. He successfully diverts the attention of lancers’ pilots and slips through the blockade and revs up the maximum he can squeeze from the engine.

“I can prompt your mind to shut down. It will start healing itself,” he offers, his tone much more composed than his thoughts.

A few long moments pass until he perceives Erik’s silent agreement.

On the way back, with Erik soundly asleep, Charles has nothing to do but think and debate with himself whether he was right to leave like he did. While an unknown menace was lurking in the shadows. But he absolutely has to take care of Erik, to take measures to protect him. Who knew that their morning trip to the city would turn into a monstrous disaster?  

When he and hybrids have safely transported sleeping Erik inside the house, Charles uncovered the med pod in the spare room no one of them has ever used. He got hang of the panel’s workings fast, although, as for the medical proceedings, Erik has also been the one to take care of that. In this frame of doubt, Charles has started musing whether or not he should wake up Erik, but one look at his still face awashed in blue light was enough to reconsider.

“When will Master wake up?”

The hybrid peers inside the pod and barely manages to snatch away its limb, when it slides shut with a whoosh.

“I don’t know,” answers Charles frankly. “I’m afraid, to recover from this he’ll need more time than we have.”

“You need help, Master’s friend?”

All nine of them have gathered in the house, a jolly band of Erik’s remaining genetically modified servants who somehow fell on his tail when he fled from Valkar. So, there are their lot and Charles, who feels particularly dumbstruck right now. Perhaps, this is because he has just arrived at a realization that he has a new family now, has had for two years and was thick-headed enough not to realize it in time.

Well, then. Having made a decision, Charles straightens up, feeling all eyes on him.

“We are going to leave the planet, guys. Please, pack Erik’s equipment, be especially careful with the items he keeps protected by reinforced glass. In my study there is a tablet and a spherical contraption on the table — get them, the rest is optional. Also, you may fetch whatever you think you might want to take with you of course. But, please, no animals. And birds,” he adds after a meaningful pause.

Charles dared think his words would cause certain effect, yet what he said was met with an unspeakable consolidation.

“Someone, please, stay with Erik in case he wakes up or, say, you notice any weird change on the display,” Charles points to the panel displaying vital signs on the side of the med pod. “If you see or hear something strange, call me on the hangar’s intercom immediately.”

“And you?” asks one of them smartly.

“I must check all systems and verify whether the ship is ready for take-off or not. It’ll take some time.”

Filled with determination, he spares a look at Erik’s sleeping form before marching out. Deep inside, he hopes, that the quickly approaching and threatening current he can sense is just a product of his overactive imagination.

 

 

***

 

  
  
At first, Charles failed to understand what was Max, now Erik, thinking — commandeering an entire cruiser. Charles fancied himself as a person who would have chosen something more elegant and compact. Because this ship, even automatized to the brim to minimize the crew, was just two hundred meters too long for a man, who wanted to disappear.

However, it must be said that some technical genius has turned it into a completely independent wonder.

Charles recalls the very first time he stepped on the fancy bridge with Erik in tow. It occurred to him then how far behind he was: the sleek control panel had a different design, obviously serving a different purpose, all systems modified to be controlled from the bridge. The array of scanners looked nothing like it did before. And he didn’t miss that much time, thought Charles dryly. Even though, it seemed he has been gone for forty years or so. If only Erik knew how tempted he was. All these modifications he could test were within reach.

“I didn’t notice any guns, missile bays or turrets, but I see that you actually have them there,” said Charles, sidestepping the pilot’s seat and avoiding Erik’s penetrating eyes.

“McCoy really overdid himself this time.”

“Hank build it for you? I mean… Really?” that got Charles’ attention and he turned to Erik in pure disbelief.

“In light of my redeeming actions, what can I say? He became an easy target of my insistence.”

Charles found himself just staring speechless.

Encouraged by his attention, Erik smiled, radiating mischievous joy — Charles looked away, for something in him started clawing at his chest if he spent a moment too long focused on this man. There was a fracture inside him and every time he turned to his old friend he saw it sneering back at him with pointy teeth.

“I, hm, I’m glad you agreed to take a tour,” Erik sounded unsure all of the sudden.

“Wait a minute,” Charles narrowed his eyes. “Even a non-psionic would sense an uncomfortable topic approaching. So you brought me here to talk? Here I thought we’ve already talked a lot.”

“I couldn’t talk with your… with her around,” stated Erik awkwardly, though the word he wanted to use rang deep and Charles couldn’t help overhearing it.

“I can’t believe it,” he crossed his arms, “you dare claim you’ve changed. You claim you’re a different person. I grant you that: you do a convincing imitation of a reformed human.”

“I believe you’re not ready to hear me out now,” Erik said.

The calmness of his tone gave his words additional point.

“Oh? So it’s up to you to decide it now — I thought it should be mutual. As for me, I’m all ears. Speak up. Please.”

A force of subdued emotion flowing through Charles pushed any rational thoughts away from him. He was, probably, blackening Erik’s character on purpose. He saw a struggle in Erik, he saw that he had something of the old attitude left, but he saw, with frightening clarity, that he wasn’t the same. Charles did not know why he said what he said.

“You are hurt,” Erik stated with unnerving, stoic face. “Believe me or not, I don’t want to see you like that. Moira is your friend, so I apologize. Damn, she saved your life. I told her she can ask for anything. I’d give her anything. But I catch myself thinking that sometimes. Old habits die hard, or don’t die at all, I guess.”

“Good point,” Charles deadpanned.

He didn’t want to let it go. He felt a shadow of annoyance brushing Erik’s mind, and he stood his ground.

“Come on,” Charles insisted. “You’ve piqued my interest. There is no way back now.”

“I want to ask you to come with me.”

Shock was not quite an accurate word, but it was the closest to what Charles felt at that moment. He also felt his ears ringing, as if he couldn’t bear listening.

“Say no more,” said Charles.

Erik did not listen.

“I’m sorry, Charles. I’ll say it again. And again if needed. And I know you can tell that I mean it. After you were gone, all I could think about was getting revenge. I wanted to use the Demolisher to blast their star to pieces and obliterate the system. And I was this close from actually doing it.”

“Stop.”

“I didn’t understand then. I kept on doing what I thought would make it easier. Until I was dragged there. To that plane, astral or not. And I let myself grieve. I let myself realize what I have, what I used to have. Life. My people. You. How precarious everything was.”

“Very well. You’ve learned it by heart,” Charles said at last, but where he expected indignation in response, he saw concern and sadness.

“Never mind,” Erik spoke. “I’ll respect any decision you make. Though, I think you should consider my offer, regardless of our argument. We’re far away from central worlds and trade routes, so the least I can do is drop you off on the planet of your choice. I won’t bother you anymore if you don’t want me to.”

When the doors closed behind Erik, Charles stumbled back and sagged into the pilot’s seat. His presence of mind was hanging by a single taut thread.

Greater than his shame was only his pain. It was wrenching. It finally broke him down, so he hung his head and sobbed until he ran out of tears.

 

 

***

 

 

Charles watches as his breath fogs his visor from the inside. He waits for an instant until an extremely feature-packed military suit balances out temperature difference and his vision becomes clear. Perfect visibility is crucial. Should he get clumsy inside the reactor chamber, he might trigger quite an explosion. Might bid an island goodbye.

As seconds tick by, he observes an elliptical shape with a silver tint in the center of the chamber. It’s vibrating slightly. This is what he noticed when he initiated a system check. And this is what shouldn’t be happening.

The tricky contraption circling the reactor is an infamous D-drive. The tech that helps ships jump at any distance in space. Charles swings his feet over the railing and lands on the grid, circling the reactor. He opens his hand, clutching a mini-drone and the sphere springs up as soon as he lets go of the button. The drone is chirping the stream of data in his comm. Charles listens with half an ear, watching the scanning device project blue light on all visible surfaces. Until it chirps louder and the light turns red. It’s right there, at the bottom of the reactor. Charles sighs and lies down. The damage is not visible for human eye. The sensors in his helmet detect it though.

Judging from the pattern, it’s the overpressure issue, which is, well, not good.

While he is waiting an allotted three-minute interval before coming out into an actual engine compartment, he is thinking that there is a question he wants to ask Erik about the ship. Although, he suspects, he already knows the answer.

Charles decides against taking off spacesuit, and, as he reaches out, for the sixth time during an hour, he feels Erik waking up.

Erik’s mind is lethargically slow, shaking off the remains of a pleasant dream. Charles’ heart leaps. Relief floods him from head to toe, that’s why he cannot resist leaning mentally onto Erik, wrapping himself around him in a spontaneous gesture.

_I’m on my way._

Outside, stars and moons come out in the sky. The night is going to be glorious and peaceful. He thinks, in passing, that regret hurts. He loathes leaving this place, but unfortunately they don’t have much choice.

He finds Erik in his workshop, just as he is giving himself an injection. White lights are on; therefore, it looks like an operation theatre. The med scanner is laid on the messy table of the room which walls are almost bare now.

“Are you okay?” Charles stutters for some reason. “Do you feel alright?”

He searches for the answer on Erik’s haggard face, in his pale eyes with shadows under them.

“I can’t lie to you. So, I don’t feel good, but it’s not as bad as before,” Erik shrugs and uses the back of the chair to prop himself up. “I walked here on my own. An accomplishment in itself. We’re leaving?”

“Yes,” Charles confirms. “I thought it would be best. Do you mind?”

“Are you joking? Relocation is the only logical solution. I thought you would mind.”

“I just want us to be safe,” Charles mutters. “Erik, about the reactor —”

There appeared a distinct disturbance on the periphery of his reach, so Charles cats his awareness out. There are five people in the ship coming from the west. Charles briefly scans their minds: one feels like a lump of pure raw aggression, another man has a mind of an assassin. He touches a quiet mind of a seasoned mercenary. This one is easy — his name’s Madrox and he muses that he has nothing to fret about because he has been doing this all his life. But, in fact, since he was fifteen.

The only girl has a particularly bright and energetic mind — she is nervous, but she covers her unease with forced cheerfulness.

Mutants, all of them.

Charles can’t quite focus properly on the fifth person, because something in him repels his attempts to go all the way in.

_“What if he isn’t in coma?” asks the girl._

_“That’s exactly why you’re here, darling.”_

Charles forces his attention back and tells frowning Erik.

“Five bounty hunters on six o’clock high. They have an old model of corvette, reconnaissance type. We have about two minutes at best. Erik, do you want me to stop them?”

“No. I want you as our secret trump card,” he grabs the scanner and makes a wry face, meeting Charles’ eyes. “Sorry.”

“I see. Hm, I too think it makes sense. And you don’t need to apologize for your strategical approach. But, I’ll give us a tiny head-start. They won’t even notice,” as he does that, Erik presses the button on the edge of the desk and when the secret compartment opens, he calmly takes out five thermal grenades.

“They were in the house this whole time,” observes Charles flatly, experiencing a strong urge to add a sincerer remark.

“Can I ask you to position them around the place?” Erik asks and it comes out almost sheepishly.

“No, Erik,” starts Charles firmly. “I’m merely saying that no matter who these people are, I’ll not be the one to assist you in blowing them up.”

“It’s not about that. Readjust the detonation time as you see fit. I really don’t want them snooping for leads around our house.”

“Oh, well. Fine, I guess. Just hurry up to the hangar.”

Charles really can’t say no to this exhausted, worn out Erik, who has done the impossible this morning. Therefore, he lets himself be talked into setting up explosives — what else does he live for, anyway. And, besides, he thinks, as he continues building up his rationalizations: there is an undeniable rational kernel in Erik’s words and action.

The scene of detonation, that unfolds behind his back as he crosses the threshold and runs up the cargo hatch, causes seismic vibrations. Charles wordlessly shushes hybrids inside and draws up the hatch, opting to speaking to Erik telepathically instead of via intercom.

_Everyone’s on board. Wing it, but, please, don’t use the drive yet. I have —_

The world tilts and Charles slams into the wall, a pained yelp torn from him echoes in his own head. He is brought back upright by a rough force that then tears his helmet off.

Charles looks into the wide eyes of the white-haired boy, whose projected overconfidence gets muddled as he gapes at him, with a tide of hot indignation rising inside his mind. His thoughts are moving faster than lightning _— whothehellagainnottheguydamnhelmetdamnspiderpeopleIknewitwouldnotbesosimpledumbanimals._

Charles hardly ever does it, but that screwed, ancestral part of him roars up and he bolts this superquick character with every bit of psionic energy he has.

After the body hits the floor, he rolls on his side and just breathes with his eyes closed, while the deck tilts a tiny fraction in the moment of take-off and Erik’s startled voice breaks through a static void in his helmet's transmitter. It feels like a lifetime has passed before his ears also pick up angry hisses made by hybrids and that makes him open his eyes.

Upon discovery that they have their long robes tied together in a bizarre manner, that puts them all in a piggy-back line: a children’s tail of a whangdoodle jumps into his mind.

Grateful that he shouldn’t stand up to reach for the helmet, he stretches out a hand and hooks it with fingertips, pulling it close.

“Erik,” he rasps. He isn’t surprised that his voice is so strangled.

Thankfully, the static stops. It gets very quiet in their grey hatch bay surroundings.

“We’ve got a guest onboard, whom I’ve turned harmless. Please, could you tell your servants not to tear him apart? I’m afraid, they might ignore my request. Putting you on the loudspeaker. Over.”

Erik falls into empathetic silence, while Charles is trying to hold in his panting.

He demonstrates his evident indignation by speaking to hybrids in their native tongue, so that Charles can’t understand a word. That sign affects Charles despite his best intentions not to be affected.

Heavy feelings aside, Charles ponders, he will deal with explanations after he is able to peel himself from the floor.

 

 

 

 


	3. Lost Ship

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In comparison to the melody of humming waves and other pleasant sounds of tropical beach, this overwhelming depth and silence of open space feels particularly loud. Charles knows from experience that he’ll get used to it soon and that upon coming back to any habitable world he’ll find himself yearning for that particular brand of vast, majestic silence. His raw, sensitive mind must quiet down soon too — he is keeping his telepathy under wraps for now. He hasn’t exercised that much, occasional trip to the continent notwithstanding, and it shows. Until his mind restores itself, he will be deriving the aftershocks from too much adrenalin still coursing through his system as he slowly walks up to the bridge.

Just to give himself time to think, he stops near the illuminator, stretched along the side corridor. White light of the neutron star they are living behind is wonderfully pure. Otherwise, space waiting for them is black, familiar.

Erik, he muses, is probably squeezing from the ship everything he can. Charles spends some time staring at nothing in particular, loaded with kindness and tranquility of hollowness. Instead of making him feel lost, space makes him oddly sentimental. Ever since he was little, he was infatuated with space. A sense of innate respect was what he felt every time he faced the void. That was the place everything was born from and everything will vanish, will dissolve in.

All this contributed to lightness with which he enters the bridge and sees Erik, his rigid back as a vivid, powerful monument to his attitude.

Charles reasons that silence is silence, nothing he can do, and marches to the second pilot’s seat. For now, he’s keeping the spacesuit on, because if he goes to change he might be also tempted to take a nap.

“You may go rest. I’ll take it from here,” he says softly and that earns him a weird sideways glance.

Has he ever seen Erik sick before — asks himself Charles, cataloguing grey and haggard face, and despite his best intentions, sensing numbness in his own left hand which doesn’t belong there. No, he hasn’t. Except for that significant time the man was dying in Charles’ arms, but that was a tale of the times long gone.

He is very tired himself, so he opts for wrapping his mind even tighter, caging his power in. It doesn’t make looking at pale Erik easier. Also, it’s very unusual of Erik to act like that: he has always been nothing but considerate and careful around Charles during these past years. So careful that, perhaps, at some point Charles started taking it for granted.

“Erik?” he waits until Erik turns to face him and by the looks of it any motion comes with effort. “What’s wrong? I’m sorry I can’t pluck it out of your head because I’m just so done for today. If you… you know.”

Charles is worried. Erik’s face turns a shade paler than before; he shapes his serious frown to perfection.

“Did that bastard hurt you?” he asks harshly.

“Not really. No. I did worse. I actually regret it, because he might not wake up for a few days or so.”

If he ever wakes at all, adds Charles silently, flooded with bitterness.

“Good,” nods Erik begrudgingly.

“He’s harmless now.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“A child,” Charles’ throat tightens. “Just a boy, Erik.”

Erik is looking at him as though he is seeing a different person and Charles puts the puzzle pieces together: there are a lot of cruel laws Erik is used to living by. Some of them he deemed obsolete, but the others linger, putting their nasty claws in flesh and drawing fresh blood. He can read it in Erik’s distant eyes: dim curtain of defeat coming down, because he couldn’t do it, couldn’t protect them when needed. Charles realized long ago that for Erik there exists an entire life unlived, life for him and his Charles. Now, he must feel it especially clear, as he’s sitting there temporarily powerless and deadly exhausted, staring at the person wearing the same face.

“It will pass, Erik. You prevented so many deaths today and though no one else thanked you, I will. I’m thanking you,” Charles stands up and extends his hand.

Withdrawal is a bad thing, something he’s secretly terrified of, so he’s very glad that Erik grabs his hand.

Charles smiles gently.

“This was also a secret trick to help you up and usher you out,” he says and Erik makes a dry skeptical sound Charles has been waiting for as he slowly gets to his feet.

Charles watches him go before turning to the station and preparing himself for a long, uneventful night he will spend tet-a-tet with displays. He starts with laying a course trajectory to avoid major trade routes. If that means flying in the direction of the Outer Rim, so be it. When Erik wakes up they will talk about it. Through the camera feed he observes two hybrids stationed by the doors of a small cabin he put their unfortunate pursuer in. The rest of them are huddled in front of Erik’s doors in a funny and almost creepy fashion. Charles rubs at his tired eyes and downloads the data related to reactor’s malfunction. Right now he is not up to stability and probability calculations, if he’s being honest. But since he’s got time he can actually study Hank’s manual.

In ten hours Charles deems the route secure: no pursuers, nothing to obstruct their way. Using total lack of active minds in the radius, he unwinds a tight grip he has on his telepathy. A violent throbbing in his head immediately comes back, but, like always, he has to wait it out. To mull over their future destination, he spreads a holographic map across the system panel. Erik picks that moment to come back, projecting contentment and carrying a metal tray with food containers. His tan is on the way back to normal, which is very good news for someone who has just had a stroke.

“How is your metal-bending?” wonders Charles meaning it as a joke to lighten up a mood.

It comes out lame, he realizes. Also, his eyes are burning from the lack of sleep.

Erik shrugs, mind zipping between annoyance and disappointment. As he focuses, afraid that it might not work, one of food container rises up above the tray for a couple of seconds before it starts shaking.

“Not impressive as you see, but it’s coming back. I went to look at the brat.”

“As I was saying, he is harmless. I made sure he can’t use his ability. When he wakes up we’ll have a talk.”

“Yeah, we surely will,” Erik glances at him, pinning down his worry, because he thinks that Charles doesn’t look good.

He nods to the tray with an arched brow. “Food? Drink?”

“A drink, but. You really didn’t have to. You should focus on getting well, not on serving me dinner.”

“They packed your favourite, so here’s your brew,” Erik ignores his words, offering him a tall covered glass.

A stubborn spell. All right, then. He will play along.

“Ah, did they? I need to thank them later,” he grabs the glass. “Erik, there is this one thing I meant to ask: is this ship, perhaps, a prototype? Untested?”

Erik’s hurting head is a fuzzy space right now. When Charles recovers enough, he’ll attempt to offer some help.

“The story is: when we established the third battlefront, you, uh, — I’m sorry. Well… Charles specifically recommended we invite McCoy to oversee spacecraft modifications. My fleet consisted of nothing but outdated battlecarriers and supercruisers in desperate need of renovation. They have last been to the maintenance docks when my grandfather was still alive. Throwing them back in action seemed like a suicide waiting to happen. I was too busy to dwell into details, so I don’t know how, but he did that. Charles finished an interdimensional jump drive and the rest is history. I also asked McCoy for a specific vessel back then. A private request, you may say. This ship. I think, I just couldn’t wait to see you, that’s why I took it and left earlier than intended.”

“It’s the fantastic ship. But, you see, the core is already unstable,” Charles touches the display to bring the holographic projection of reactor to life. “One jump. Maybe. I’d rather we do without, of course.”

Erik feels disgruntled. Charles can’t ignore his emotions, always so strong and overwhelming. Because for a man who plays it cool, Erik is feeling everything really deep.

“Then, we mend it,” Erik nods to his inner musings.

“Alright, but where?”

“That’s a nice question,” Erik carefully studies the map as a few faces flash through his mind. “I have an acquaintance in the Zwen system. I’ll ask if he can help.”

Charles nods. This issue being discussed puts him on ease.

His bedding on the ship can’t compare to the tremendously comfortable bed he left back in the villa. Yet, he is too glad to stretch out on any horizontal surface to complain. Charles falls asleep reminiscing about warm sun and kind breeze.

He flinches and draws back. A cold touch on his forearm sneaks round his heart tying it up with phantom stripes.

Haggard Erik, hand midair, is a very picture of apprehension.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, guilt colouring his words and bleeding all over. “I thought you heard me.”

Whatever is going on makes little sense right now. Charles is feeling the chill of the deck with his bare feet; a loose T-shirt and pants he has been just falling asleep in feel now uncomfortably rough against his skin and he is standing in the corridor leading to the bridge having no clue how he got here. When he gulps down, his throat is as dry as a desert.

“Couldn’t sleep,” it slips uninvited before Charles can catch himself. “Could you do your manual, um, magic or give me something to help me out?”

Touched by his words, Erik assures him that of course he can help.

Round two, manages to think Charles, while Erik is softly palpating the back his neck in the most wonderful of ways. Delighted, Charles absolutely certain he is sinking through the bed together with his blanket. Sleep embraces him and he clasps it back tight.  
  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
  


They are sitting in the canteen at the round table: Charles and Erik together and their unwelcome guest on the opposite end. Charles’ idea to create non-threating environment backfired, because hybrids are peeking through the open doors and though Charles knows that they are just curious, the boy doesn’t know that.

Even white as snow and barely cognizant after a telepathic knockout, the boy is throwing him and Erik dirty, edgy looks. Charles is battered by his jumpy thoughts: he’s scared, everything is too damn slow, he’s butchered his first mission and he is fucked, this guy looks like the dead guy they have been showing in that war documentary. He was a telepath. Right? Because this one is a telepath too. Probably. Yes, he is. Oh, shit, what if this one’s reading my mind right now?

“My name’s Charles,” Charles smiles invitingly to smoothen the interrogation situation.

Erik looks impassive on the surface, but his cold, calculated attitude coils up like a vine round his still persona.

“Eisenhardt,” the boy chooses to disregard Charles and looks at Erik instead.

There’s some awe and trepidation mixed up in the sound of that name. And fear, a great deal of fear.

“I don’t use that name anymore,” drops Erik. “You didn’t introduce yourself.”

“Do you really need it? Do I need to say anything? Because I felt you in my head,” he points a finger at Charles and Erik cringes.

“Where are your manners, brat?”

“Where is my speed?” he sneers.

“Peter,” Charles steps in. “I apologize for blocking your abilities. Rest assured, once we land on a Union planet we’ll let you go and I’ll undo it.”

_We will?_

_Yes, Erik. What else do you plan to do with him?_

“Why are they staring at me?” murmurs Peter, throwing fast glances over his shoulder.

“They are probably hungry,” smirks Erik and Charles rolls his eyes.

Seeing that civil conversation won’t lead him anywhere, he just scans the boy’s recent memories, soothing his nerves meanwhile and levelling his wildly beating heart. He recognizes the people from the memory: three weathered man, who appear cool and awesome to Peter. They found him loitering round the space station on the suffocating shipbuilding planet. They offered him a job he could only dream of. Then, they fetched the girl.

Eisenhardt is one hell of a deal, they said. A confirmed hit was needed, they said. A part of Charles’ mind reels in fear at the thought of losing Erik. He draws back at that, his mind latching onto Erik’s tight, searching for instant confirmation of presence, so Erik turns to him with worry lines already etched into his forehead.

_Nothing essential, sorry. He was just a rookie recruit. Perhaps, they meant to dispose of him afterwards._

Erik nods, indicating that he understood and stands up to escort Peter back to his cabin.

While alone, Charles hangs his head, eyeing his twisted reflection in the steel table surface. He can’t deny that living with Erik during these two years made them close. Not as close as they used to be, because there was no going back to that. Ever. Yet, between Erik’s self-proclaimed atonement quest and Charles’ hurt and haunting longing, something else has started to emerge.  
  
  
  


***  
  
  
  
  
  
“Can you hold it for me?”

Peter scowls, deliberately, but pinches a wire with pincers and brings it closer under the screen. His constant foot tapping has become soothing after a while, as well as a fast-paced buzz of the boy’s thoughts.

“You can stop straining yourself,” mentions Charles, looking up from under the rim of his holographic specs. “You won’t be able to shield anyway, but, I’m afraid, your attempts to do so come with a headache.”

Peter thinks that his words are menacing, but puts up what he thinks is a cool front. Charles sighs for the umpteenth time.

“I won’t hurt you, but I can’t simply release you in good conscience,” Charles says. “I only attempt to make your stay here bearable, because I know how vexing loneliness and isolation can be for a mind like yours. Trust me or not, I’m not your enemy, Peter. Neither is our host. Ah, I see. You’re still curious.”

Charles exhales, but decides that he can at least try.

“You have a lot of complicated questions,” he wets his lips. Speaking about it out loud is quite a challenge, it appears.

“Who are you?” blurts the boy, encouraged by his silence. “Are you that dead guy? The scientist?”

“Technically, I can’t be him. Because, like you pointed out, he is dead.”

“Are you a clone?” blurts the boy. “It sucks if you are, man.”

“Well, thanks for a sentiment, Peter. But I really can’t give you an answer.”

Words have a certain ring to them, decides Charles, watching the model of prototype he’s been fiddling with since morning. Peter was no help at all, unfortunately. Lack of formal education showed, thought Charles sadly. At least, the boy had something to do with his hands. Also, his thoughts he dared not voice yet were somewhat amusing.

When doors slide open and Erik marches in, Charles greets him with a tentative smile, projecting assurance, which he doesn’t feel.

“Why, pray tell me, you think it’s a good idea?” Erik asks without any preamble, thinking loudly about recklessness and pointedly looking at Peter.

Peter looks at Charles and then back at Erik and then just folds his arms with a sly smirk. Sharp edges of his hopping thoughts get tinted with mischievous anticipation. His emotions are everywhere at once.

Charles sighs.

Fortunately, or not, an alarm cuts root from under his explanation and Erik dashes out.

“Peter, put an optic rod you have snatched from the drawer down before you leave,” he says calmly and watches as the boy fishes the tool from his inner pocket with hands that no longer obey him.

His face is twisted into a grimace of distress as he shoots Charles a look, thinking of damn telepaths and he thought he was extra careful, should he try distracting this guy next time.

“I approve of your persistence. Though, it will lead you nowhere,” Charles pats him on the back, planting a suggestion. “Now, go straight to your cabin.”

On the bridge, Erik is already strapped into a pilot’s chair, as a mechanical voice repeatedly reports that a distress signal was detected in their sector. On Erik’s command it calculates the coordinates and once it does a surprise from Erik bleeds over.

Charles doesn’t want to take chances with Erik tonight. He senses that by allowing Peter out he has broken some unspeakable agreement.

“It is an abandoned military asteroid base,” Erik tells him. “Life supply has been withdrawn half a century ago. It wasn’t even reactivated during the war.”

“We should check it regardless,” Charles says carefully, waiting for Erik’s reaction.

Erik glances over his shoulder. It seems, he is as wary of telling something wrong as Charles is.

“We are fleeing from mercenaries, Charles. I,” it pains him to say it. “I won’t be much help if something happens. Not yet.”

“It goes both ways. I will do my best not to let anything happen to you either,” says Charles, and though it comes out unintentionally grave, he goes on. “It’s entirely possible that it is just a rescue pod. Or anything, really. Will it hurt to scan the place and see what we can find?”

Charles doesn’t expect to get such a ferocious spark of affection in response. It appears, Erik chooses to focus on Charles’ semi-confession rather than his logical reasoning.

Upon arriving within the scanner’s range, they are presented with a dilemma. Charles bites his lip, thinking that the puzzle is only getting bigger. He can see the base in question from the bridge now, as it’s floating through dark space, apparently caught by some celestial body’s gravity pull. Its’ irregular shape is due to natural formation, where its’ insides are filled with man-made metal structures partially visible on the scanners. Charles casts his mind out again and comes back with nothing.

“Is your range —“

“It’s fine. It is within, um, my perimeter,” Charles feels silly, shaking his head.

He feels the emptiness so acutely, and yet settles for a possible argument.

“Let’s not forget that there are species immune to my powers.”

“And you usually avoid them at all costs,” sarcasm is dripping from Erik’s words like sour syrup.

Well, the thing is: a scanner does report two life signs. There’s too much residual radiation within the station to tell exactly what they are, but they are deep inside the station. The only problem is — Charles senses nothing. Not even a stir within his reach.

Erik anticipates what he will be saying even before Charles opens his mouth.

“I’m going to have a quick look. I will take hybrids with me,” he tries for a tiny compromise.

There is so much Erik wants to say to that, but instead he nods stiffly and stands up.

“Let’s gear you up, then.”

In the airlock module, while fixing adjustable weaponry above his wrist, Erik concentrates on mental instructions for Charles, supplying him with images, which should help him use it.

“Just don’t forget to flex your wrist properly. Otherwise, your hand is as good as gone,” he instructs.

“I will try to keep that in mind if something attacks me out of the blue. Thanks.”

Charles starts feeling more and more anxious about all these proceedings as Erik checks Charles’ spacesuit’s life supply systems with practiced ease.

“I want you constantly in here,” Erik taps his temple. “Deal?”

_Yes, of course. Every excruciating detail will be projected._

“Charles,” Erik is not tricked by his pathetic attempts at humor. “I won’t judge you if you don’t go. Not because I am all-supportive out of guilt like you might imagine, but because you don’t have to. If something looks like a trap, maybe that’s because it is. I’ve been sending them messages in all universal languages and we have yet to get any reply.”

A thought slams into him hard. A true reason why. A _pull_.

 _You can’t tell him_ , he hears a whisper among his thoughts. But, Charles argues, there’s nobody but Erik in his life. And he would want to know. Charles knows that he would.

“I need to,” he offers Erik a smile, a tad strained, and levels up his visor.

He keeps his word, gently sliding into Erik’s mind, careful not to dive deeper than mere surface thoughts.

Unlike him, hybrids are immune to most kinds of radiation, so they’re just wearing bubbly helmets with oxygen. Charles exhales, finally planting his feet down after a short flight through space from their ship to the base’s hatch.

Since base doesn’t have a center of gravity, he has to activate magnetic properties of his boots.

They enter through the gaping opening and Charles releases a drone, which illuminates and scans their surroundings. Erik is getting the same feed as Charles’ team. One hybrid is moving in front. Two others are flanking Charles. And, as they are slowly proceeding deeper inside, Charles relaxes a little, looking around with curiosity.

They are in the corridor, which is leading them down, and drone lights up a grand escalator. Random floating objects starts to appear after hybrids and he force the jammed doors open. Charles catches himself looking at a piece of cloth floating past him in trance. He then follows a metal cup drifting alongside him with his eyes. Charles dutifully shares his observations with Erik, receiving his comments in exchange. Erik is thinking that there wasn’t any sign that someone went past any of the doors they passed.

“How else did anyone get inside?” wonders Charles, opening a number of doors with warnings on them.

They are entering a secure area and Erik’s attention sharpens.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“I’m just listening,” Charles focuses on disembodied voice of a program in his suit, reporting the change in the chemical composition.

The air is not breathable yet, but it’s not vacuum anymore. Charles is not sure how it can even be possible. It this some experimental gas?

The moment the display of his helmet flashes with red warning, Erik simultaneously shouts, ordering him to freeze, both out loud and through their connection.

“Oh my,” breaths out Charles, trying to keep still in the middle of taking an awkward magnetized step.

_Don’t move. It looks like a cargo mine of last century design._

Through his mental connection with Erik he receives more expletives, paired with hurried attempt to put mainframe to work and calculate the odds.

The hybrids circle him like a bizarre carousel and Charles closes his eyes against a nausea rising up despite his best intentions to subdue a swirl of fear.

_Erik, just tell me whether the suit can withstand an explosion, that’s it._

He is afraid and Erik is scared too. Yet, Erik’s fear is of a different kind. Erik has got terrible memories to relieve. His mindscape is shaky, because his mind is forcibly thrown into confusion, the terror of letting Charles get hurt on his watch is squeezing his calm and years of training out.

 _Erik, please,_ Charles repeats and feels that his loud call jolts Erik up. _Calm you mind!_

In the meantime, something else is happening. Charles can tell that the floor beneath his feet is changing an angle. The rotation is happening, he realizes, and slightly bends his knees. Maybe, he’d have to try moving without waiting for Erik. Charles hesitates before determinedly motioning to the hybrids to move forward and try next door. The door they are about to open is shut tight and something tells Charles that this is exactly where they were headed.

On Erik’s end there are jumbled emotions and a pounding headache, which resonates within Charles’ skull.

“Guys,” Charles is saying through his transmitter, as floor is turning upside down slowly. “I suggest you take cover in that ventilation shaft by the door. I believe, you can fit.”

“Will you take cover too?” asks one of them, swaying in front of the last doors lightly.

“In a manner of speaking,” Charles severs his mental connection to Erik with a heavy heart.

He waits until the hybrids disappear into the shaft. The floor is almost sixty degrees up and the magnetizers in his boots are flashing in warning projected on his visor. He puts faith in Hank’s creative genius and channels suit’s bursting power into his hands and feet. As soon as he tears away from the floor, an explosive force punches him aside.

Charles feels a split second of immense pressure everywhere, blue fire explodes around and then he instinctively shuts his eyes.

When his head clears out a bit, he blinks through black dots and dull buzz in his ears. He is lying on the ground: he can tell that because he can see a mash of pipes and wires on the ceiling. Some gravity was restored, it means. The visor in his helmet is covered with thin spidery cracks, so looking around is tough and a caution message running through an inbuilt screen tells him that his suit is functioning at ten percent capacity.  

One of the hybrids appears in his cracked line of vision and Charles weakly lifts his hand to beckon it closer.

The hybrid helps him up and the picture that unfolds in front of Charles’ eyes belongs in a horror dream.

In the very center of what looks like a large spherical command center there is an A-class destroyer. Or, at least it used to be a destroyer. Until it got molded into the base itself. Its wings fused into walls completely. Its hull is left suspended in the air. Supposedly tough metal covered in weird black fissures. The hatch to cockpit seems to be dented from within by some unbelievable force.

The remaining sensors in his suit are warning him not to take his helmet off, while Charles maneuvers himself up with the help of hybrids. His transmitter is dead, completely nonresponsive and he tries to mimic to hybrids to follow him. Thankfully, they understand.

 _Erik,_ he reaches out, _we are in and we found the ship_.

He supplies his message with an image and it reaches Erik when he’s in the middle of putting on a space suit. Charles gets a litany of relief and frustration, which stops abruptly when Erik hears his voice.

While grabbing the edges of dents for support and hoisting himself up the ship’s bulk, he patiently listens to Erik questioning him. Charles answers that _yes, he is fine, yes, he is coming back soon_. He takes care to project calm and cool reassurance.

When he grabs the handle of the hatch a human head pops out right through metal surface and Charles reflexively lets go with a gasp.

He hits the floor not as hard as he could have. Yet, his vision darkens because he is already hurting all over. The program smartly informs him that he has thirty minutes left before his life support shuts down completely.

Charles groans and sends a hurried apology Erik's way. He has unwittingly let Erik feel his fall and accompanying emotions.

Over him, face to face, an almost transparent body of a girl is hovering, her eyes devoid of any expression. Charles squints up, because of the splinters and because he can’t believe his eyes.

_I know her, Erik. You too, actually. I’m so glad we caught that signal. This is Katherine Pryde. And as you might see, she is not corporeal for some mysterious reason._

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Charles can barely feel the girl even now, when she is in close proximity, swaying in the air over an unconscious young man, a pilot Charles discovered inside. Erik is getting ready to treat him right now. He also firmly told Charles to lie down, but Charles knows himself too well. He can’t just go to sleep in a situation like this.

“Don’t you think I should take that off?” Erik brusquely taps the band, which is circling the injured man’s head.

Charles averts his eyes and tilts his head backwards. A simple motion helps to relieve tension from his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t think you should,” he slowly says. “Think about it. It doesn’t quite add up. Seems they have been trying to protect themselves from something or someone. Let him keep it on. Besides, he is not the one who needs my help.”

“I get it,” Erik throws over his shoulder. “Don’t just sit over there. Lie down, Charles, for lord’s sake. I will need you to deal with Emma and I’d rather your aching self was rested and ready.”

Charles nods, though Erik is already leaning over his patient and can’t see him. He crawls into a bed, the only one free left, donning his stiff overalls.

Using Erik’s focus as an anchor of sorts, Charles allows his mind to drift round the ship.

Emma Frost is still as stone. She is stone, indeed. Her diamond form glimmers dimly in the corner. They have to wait until she wakes up.

Charles casts his awareness away from the med bay. He gently brushes Peter’s anxious mind, taking a tiny peek at his turbulent dreams and softening up the edges.

Having no one else to contact, he cautiously looks through Erik’s eyes at his patient. _Drake_ , Eriks mind supplies. _Half-dead_. Erik also met him during the war. A tiny fraction of Erik’s mind is dedicatedly trying to solve the puzzle, while his hands are busy with noninvasive surgery. There are plenty of fascias and ligaments to mend, not to mention internal bleeding. Erik thinks that he has never seen anything like that. As though the body was randomly torn from within. Charles shudders inside, pulling himself out and focusing on the girl again.

 _Kitty_ , he recalls. She used to work with Hank in Academia. Yeah, she always asked to be called Kitty.

If a regular person is a bundle of light and vital energy for him, Kitty feels like a barely smoldering ember. She is withering, dissolving into nothing. Charles wagers that the only thing holding her here is this unconscious young man. There must be a strong emotional connection between them. Maybe, diving into his mind would help, but Charles would rather not overstep. To his knowledge, if people choose to wear a protector, they want telepaths out. He can respect that.

So instead, he lets himself loose, sliding into astral plane and keeping hold on Kitty’s evasive consciousness. As usual, when he abandons his physical body, the visible world turns brighter. He steps forward to Kitty, holding out his hand and smiling. The sleek med bay disappears as Charles reconstructs a cozy garden by his apartment in Academia. Green is everywhere. This place knows no autumn. Sun disk is rising up, caressing trees and soft grass. Charles shrouds the spot in warmth, love and genuine safety. He waits until Kitty lightly touches his fingertips.   

They stay like that for a while.

Charles, no longer confined in his tired body, is content to watch the girl quietly. Any spoken or projected words would be useless. He can stay there with her as long as she needs, for time is crawling in the physical world while they are suspended here.

According to his calculations hours pass until he feels something stirring inside her. It seems a big matter to wonder when she shifts closer, her feet almost touching the ground.

Curiosity. Charles can’t label it anything else. If you don’t remember who or what you are, it takes some deeply engraved curiosity to come closer to a strange being and lace their hands together.

Fine, thinks Charles, seizing the opportunity.

He opens his eyes in time to catch her rematerializing body, as she has seemingly decided to float over his bed.

Erik tells something to hybrids somewhere from his left. Erik’s general exasperated mood is not a mystery for Charles.

“I’d rather go back to my cabin,” huffs Charles after they carefully deposit Kitty on his bed and Erik pronounces her stable.

Meanwhile, Erik is torturously trying to come up with an important conversation starter. Now, when he is done with surgery and every immediate danger is over, he wants to apologize for panicking. Charles timidly avoids his hot-wired thoughts, randomly scattered among stolidity.

“Tomorrow, Erik,” he says. “Is that alright?”

Erik frowns, as though an implied meaning is too large for comprehension. That is, until he suddenly grabs Charles into his arms tight, nearly squeezing all breath out of him. There it is. Charles nearly sags down, his knees refusing to keep him upright any longer. A subtle something, that keeps him awake, withdraws, and he finally feels like gliding over the sea, events of the bizarre day just rolling by like waves.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Memory

 

 

 

 

Charles literally runs into disheveled Kitty as he is about to enter a med bay. She pops out of the wall and strides right through him.

Charles jolts, confused, and pauses in his tracks as a bright spark of her disbelief and shock bounces off his shields.

She whirls around then, staring at him with eyes and mind that scream of the question he has come to anticipate.

“No, I’m not him,” Charles tells her.

“Huh?” she shakes her head a little, hazel eyes wide.

Then, her body flickers, mindscape shifts dangerously and Charles darts forward, trying to grab her arm, while she is slowly sinking into the floor.

Her mind is full of sharp terror, which resonates with him.

“I can’t control it! What’s happening to me?” her scared voice gets lost and distorted, body growing transparent.

 _Focus on me_ , Charles projects, channeling calm. He has to kneel on the floor to keep an eye contact with her fading self. Connecting his mind to someone who is panicking is a tricky part. _I’m going to start a count. I need you to help me and count with me. Alright?_

They reach one hundred together while Charles is mending her fraying concentration. By the time he is done, Kitty is able to control her phasing. She hoists herself up and sits on the floor, breathing harshly.

“I’m afraid, it’s only temporary. You need to practice concentration daily if you want to regain full control over your ability.”

“Wow, that was crazy,” she squints at him nervously, internally torn between curiosity and embarrassment. “Thank you. I’m sorry for earlier. So you are?”

The med bay door slides open and Erik measures up both of them sitting on the floor. He thinks at Charles that he’d really like to know what is going on.

Where to begin, wonders Charles.

“Charles?” Erik says apprehensively, emphasizing his mental inquiry.

_In brief? We need to make sure she doesn’t phase herself into space. It seems, I was able to lend her some of my focus and presence yesterday, but it’s not enough. She must relearn how to control it. And, good morning to you, Erik._

“Oh, lord,” Kitty whispers meanwhile and pales. He is a telepath. And he looks almost the same. A little younger maybe. But how? Why?

Her wayward emotions fuse with disdain when she realizes how Eisenhardt has just called him. How could he do that to his friend? How could he doom him to this mockery of life? Before her thoughts spiral down and put to waste all Charles’ work, he stops her.

“Please, calm down,” he places his hand on top of hers. “It’s alright. Max here didn’t create any clones. He didn’t bring anyone back from the dead as well. It’s impossible.”

“But,” she looks at Erik for an answer.

Charles does so too. Erik is thinking very clearly that he doesn’t want to upset him when, in fact, Charles realizes that somewhere between saving a city from the falling space station and a stroll through the mine-infested base his existence has stopped being his sore spot.

So, a pregnant pause is broken by Charles himself, who stands and helps Kitty up.

“It appears that there are beings in our universe powerful enough to replicate life. And they owed Max… Erik. So here I am. Just like I was before the war even began.”

“Incredible,” she gulps down.

Erik briefly looks away.

“Erik? How are they? Your friend and Emma?” asks Charles, peeking over Erik’s shoulder into a dimly lit ward.

“Emma is unresponsive. Drake is an acquaintance,” Erik immediately states and Charles feels Kitty straining not to smirk under her polite mask.

He sends her a mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder in approval and she gives Charles a small smile.

“Physically, he is as fine as he can be. I did what I could with equipment I have. I actually wanted Charles to take a look at him. Pryde said I can take the protector off, so I did. I’d like to know whether his mind is intact,” Erik nods to him and steps back in the ward. “If you will?”

Charles and Kitty follow Erik back.

When they stop by the med pod barely illuminated from above, Charles can acutely feel the mix of emotions Kitty projects. There is pain and anger and longing within the roll. As her eyes fall on the man’s still face, her concentration wavers again.

“Can you tell us what happened to you and your ship?” asks Charles quietly, while his mind is brushing Drake’s.

Charles can tell that he’s in an induced healing coma, not in pain. His mindscape is foggy, receptors dulled from recent shock, but nothing else is amiss.

“We did multiple jumps. Last succession destabilized the core, and though I tried to warn Bobby, he didn’t listen. Mathematically, the chances of us being torn into atoms were higher than probability of all this,” she makes a vague gesture, “of this space distortion happening. I guess, my ability reacted to the burst of radiation.”

“I believe you’re right,” speaks up Charles. “Allow me to ask you the obvious. Were you running away from something?”

“I don’t even… But this is you, so you should be warned. I wanted to tell everything lord Eisen… um, sorry,” she scrunches her nose a little, “how should I call you now?”

“Erik.”

“Hm, okay, well,” she is uncomfortable with that, but Erik doesn’t bat an eye at her stammering. “Um… Erik told me that we should wait for the person who rescued us. Oh, that’s you!”

She doesn’t say much, just turns to Charles and hugs him abruptly. She is genuinely grateful and the force of her feelings grants Charles warmth from a pleasant feedback loop.

“Kitty, can I take a look at your memories?”

“Sure,” she exhales slowly, confusion flits through her thoughts. “I still can’t believe what happened. You might notice something I missed. When I look back at it, it started when Commander Frost was reported to have fallen ill I think. Scott was acting strange lately. Well, I can’t even define strange for Scott — I just noticed he was kind of a jerk. After all, I haven’t seen him for a while. Me and Bobby, we were stationed on Valkar moon. I was in the labs and Bobby was given ambassador duties, which is, um, not in his character mildly speaking. But you don’t need my introduction, do you?”

“On the contrary, you’ve been very helpful,” Charles gently pats her on the back, but his eyes are drawn to Erik.

_Come along?_

After Erik projects his agreement Charles can tell that he is bracing himself, though there is really no need.

Everyone takes a seat next to Erik’s workstation. Knowing that most people appreciate a warning, he lifts his fingers to his temple.

“Just relax. It should take a minute at most.”

For once, Charles explicitly waits a beat before tugging Erik and himself into foreign mindscape. He lets Erik have his moment of confusion while they linger, intertwined, on the edge of memory he specifically picked out.

And then they are on the balcony, under Creamenia’s crystal darkening skies, crossed by dozens upon dozens of ships from all over the Union. Kitty feels uneasy. She is wearing a long, dark overcoat, which helps her to almost blend in with shadows. She is walking along the railing. Back and forth. Back and forth, anticipation simmering under her skin. Bobby is late again.

“I saw the broadcast. It was definitely Eisenhardt. Certainly not the place I expected him to choose as a hiding spot.”

She stills and lifts her head up.

On the balcony above her someone is talking. This someone sounds a lot like Scott and she is thinking of surprising the mighty governor.

“He couldn’t help revealing himself,” says a quiet voice, which she believes she heard before. She can’t quite place it.

“He wasn’t alone. And I don’t mean his spiders,” says Scott and then. “What’s wrong?”

Kitty feels something raw and sharp tear through her head. It rips through her and she is falling, her ability forced in action, taking her as far as possible. Charles cringes sympathetically and tugs Erik along as her hazy memory unfolds when she is frantically talking to Bobby.

“I don’t know what happened! Alright?” she tenses up, watching Bobby fidgeting with the controls.

Their flyer isn’t even up yet, and she desperately, really wants to get away from this hemisphere altogether.

“What exactly have you heard?” Bobby makes a move to take her hand, but she yanks it back.

“One more time: I’m not sure. My head is spinning. I dimly remember hearing Scott. I think I was attacked by a psionic or something. Can we go now?”

A loud sound of a speeder whooshing past them makes her twitch in her seat. She warily looks out and around through shielded wind screen. Her glance darts from tall lit steeples of the city up to the busy bottomless sky. Her mind hasn’t stopped whirling wildly yet. Bobby might be thinking that she is exaggerating, she muses sourly.

“Kitty,” Bobby looks funny when he knits his brows together like that. “Have you missed the broadcast?”

“Come again,” a very bad feeling washes through her.

“Twelve Union self-governing planets were attacked simultaneously. There were twelve accidents. The levels of damage are between considerate and devastating. No one really knows what’s going on,” Bobby runs fingers through his regrown brown hair, messing it up badly. “People are saying that the Reminiscence Day was chosen to deliver a message. What if—?”

The capital planet should be the safest place in the entire Union, though right now Kitty was longing for space.

“I,” she struggles to piece everything together, “I must watch this broadcast you’re talking about. And I want to see Emma. Hope, she is well enough to host unexpected guests…”

The memory dissolves and she is standing in the hall, looking down the staircase. Bobby is supporting Emma. She looks positively grey and haggard in plain black clothes, her hair in disarray for the first time ever. Her blue eyes are empty again as though no one else is there. She was fine a few moments ago, was coherent and determined. This scares Kitty, because their tiny team of deflectors is one functioning member down. She tries to will this feeling away: it would be a disaster if they were caught because of a holdup caused by her worrying.

Wide-eyed Bobby suddenly twitches and looks at Kitty, baffled.

“She just told me that we won’t pass here. Someone is coming,” Bobby reports, “there is, er, wait. There is an underground passage to a hangar under this house.”

Kitty turns back, shuffling through Bobby’s backpack. He mentioned he had one. Just in case.

“Put it on,” she says, pulling out a protector and throwing it to Bobby.

He doesn’t catch it. Nervous Bobby is a clumsy Bobby, she sighs.

“No,” he struggles to pick it up, “there’s only one. You should —“

“Out of two of us you can do more damage if under telepathic control, so please, please don’t argue with me. Brace yourself.”

She steps closer to wrap her arms round him and Emma. Bobby grabs her shoulder tight, always wary when she phases them. The next thing she knows they are on the floor covered with big glassy panels reflecting lightfrom Bobby’s wrist pad. Emma sags down completely.

Kitty’s heart feels like it’s panging against her ribs.

“This way,” says Bobby, pointing back. He grunts when he picks Emma up, “uh, she’s heavier than she looks.”

Oh, come on now. She scowls slightly, but part of her is thankful for Bobby being himself.

“Do you need a hand?”

“No, I’m good,” a groan escapes him and Kitty pauses a moment to study his face in the dim light. His dark eyes look almost black and he looks pale. She feels a rush of not-quite-depleted affection when abruptly a familiar pain explodes in her head.

She screams ‘go’ to Bobby and follows them, barely dragging her feet. Her consciousness is resonating with dull ache and Charles decides on pulling Erik out. After all, they have seen what they meant to.

 

 

***

 

 

He is cold, his hands seem icy, though the temperature within the ship hasn’t dropped a bit. He wonders, his brain half asleep, what would Erik decide to do now and whether he would want Charles to tag along. He crouches down to tug out a warm crewneck from the pile of clothes stashed under his bed. He doesn’t remember owning one. Must be Erik.

Per habit, he reaches out to brush the minds of the passengers. Erik is on the bridge and he pauses to say hello. There is a tendril of pleased recognition sliding past and Erik projects that they nearly reached the designated star system. His thoughts feel hot and vehement, almost physically so. Charles is no stranger to Erik’s inner strength and mental fortitude, which, when combined, feel perplexingly tempting for cushioning his worries. It’s aggravating how much he craves curling round a mind like this for comfort.

 _I’ll go grab something to eat. See you there._ Charles says and carefully retracts back. He thinks Erik wouldn’t mind him being clingy, but he is not okay with that himself.

Truth be told, Charles is glad that in light of a new trouble on the horizon Erik postponed his apologizing talk.

When he’s approaching a canteen, he already knows that Kitty sneaked in and brought Peter again. She has her evasiveness practiced to a fault, so Erik never quite succeeded in forcing her to obey his rules during these past days. Drake, who became just Bobby per Kitty’s insistence is there too. As usual, he radiates a faint sense of agitation when in the company of these two. It doesn’t show on his face, because when Charles comes in he catches him smugly freezing Peter’s drink. Probably, making a point or something.

A verbal skirmish that has just begun immediately cools down as soon as he enters the canteen.

Charles fixes Kitty, who is chatting up a hybrid, with a curious glance and she smiles in return. Hybrids took liking to her too, if the way they gathered round her was any indication.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully and her greeting is echoed by both young men.

Charles responds in kind, smiles and is pointedly looking at Bobby until he collects a cup with frozen something from under the table and gets out a mumbled apology under his breath.

Erik joins them while Charles is absent-mindedly filling his tray. Rather unsurprisingly, his presence extinguishes the last sprouts of rogue mood hanging in the air. Charles, try as he might, can’t help finding that impressive. He is also well aware that Erik is in a contemplative mode again, so he doesn’t pry, letting the man collect and nurture his thoughts.

“Charles, can we talk?” he says and turns to Peter. “Rejoice, we’ll let you back in the wild soon.”

Peter tries out a passable display of casual nonchalance, which fools no one and pretty fast turns into a glare.

 _Don’t be harsh,_ Charles takes his tray and moves towards the exit. _He’s just started warming up to everyone._

Behind his back something crashes and Kitty exclaims ‘enough’. The expression of self-righteous satisfaction lights up Erik’s features. It costs Charles a lot to refrain from glancing back as the doors slide shut behind him.

“It feels like we have not three people in there but thirty,” says Erik into the ensuing silence. It is followed by a lovely wisp of perplexing amusement intertwined with his other, casual emotions.

Charles hums, indicating his agreement. As they start walking towards the bridge, he smothers a grin, that has almost formed on his lips.

“You won’t deny they can be quite lively.”

“Yes, quite,” Erik’s expressive grey eyes zero on him. “Have you slept alright?”

“Fine,” he flings back, a smile ready to follow. “Why? It is unusual for you to ask.”

Involuntary, his mind winds round Erik’s, a fraction away from prodding. Charles stomps on the urge as he registers it. Seems he’s unable to wait for an actual verbalized answer, he gives road to anxiety too fast, too soon.

“Nothing. Bad dreams. Fortunately for us you once told me that I can’t see the future,” Erik grunts dully, he even appears embarrassed just a tiny bit by his earlier question.

There is something humbling about interacting with this open-hearted Erik, who is capable of being awkward like any other human being. Charles’ own secrets sit heavy within his chest. He sighs away his apprehension, almost ready to break into a frank ramble about his sleepwalking and weird stuff he started to notice.

Then, Charles feels it. Like a needle going into his temple. Not very painful, but unpleasant enough that he clutches his tray tighter and blinks through a split moment of acrid whiteness in his vision.

“Emma?” asks Erik, searching his face.

Charles pushes back discomfort and nods.

On the pristine background of med bay, Emma looks worn. Her complexion is grey. By the time they run in, she has already managed to get on her feet and obtain one of Erik’s laser scalpels. Her protective stance doesn’t seem to be the result of a conscious effort. They can’t see her expression clearly as it’s hidden by bangs plastered to her face. To Charles, her mind screams wrong. Like a grand maze: deliberately complex, yet bleak and crumbling.

 _She used to lead psionic corps. Let’s not provoke her, shall we?_ he sends Erik, throwing a protective shield round his mind for good measure.

_She is all yours, Charles._

Emma lifts her head, finally, and although her light blue eyes are open, they are expressionless, unseeing. Her lips are a thin line, a cut on her ghastly face. Being blessed with great memory Charles remembers how outstandingly gorgeous she used to be. If not for his telepathy, he might have not recognized her face right now.

Charles senses her struggling to reach out with her powers. Her anger is dragging behind her slowly crawling, confused thoughts. Charles decides to start with an elementary move: he projects calm and wants to start a healthy dialogue. He broadcasts his intention in her direction in the most unthreatening way he can manage.

By his side, Erik is as motionless as though he is made of stone. The shields of his own making are up. They wouldn’t be enough to stop Charles completely, but strong enough to cost an effort. One brief sideways glance in Erik’s general direction confirms that he’s also assumed position preparatory to making or taking a strike.

Between two of them Charles is a sorry sight, he figures. It is true, though. He just has to do his job, so he braces himself and tries stirring her mind very gently out of this stupor. It finally sets Emma off.

Charles feels the burn faster than he even registers that she is on him. His body is smarter than his mind in a way that the scalpel pierces his forearm, not his neck. He reels backwards as Erik grabs her attacking hand and gets kicked in the shin and pushed back. Charles’ telepathy is a fraction too late. Just as he thinks of stunning her, her body swiftly turns crystal and she shifts her weight to another foot like it’s nothing. Erik barely avoids the scalpel, but her pivoting kick catches him.

In a blaze of the moment, Charles miraculously manages to grab her armed arm. It is so cold and cut. His grip is desperate, but…

Everything stops as fast as it began, when he hears the tell-tale groan of metal snapping round Emma’s arms, legs and neck simultaneously.

Charles lets out a shuddering breath when he sees that her clenched fist was inches away from his head. He gulps down a lump, while his brain paints an unnecessarily bright picture of a would-be damage. That could have hurt a lot.

“Charles? Charles, can you hear me?” Erik’s voice is tight, suppressing swirling emotion Charles can easily detect underneath.

As soon as Charles lets go of Emma’s arm, who unwittingly acted like a physical anchor, he starts feeling wobbly from relief.

His vocal cords appear strained, though he doesn’t remember shouting. He has to gulp again.

Then Erik invades his senses, both in and out, asking him something persistently and touching him. He is actually so close that Charles is breathing in his scent. A cold press against his neck. Charles is uncertain what it might be until a prick of injection is what brings the world into focus and sharpens his senses.

“There, you should be fine now,” Erik is tilting his head up, checking his pupils. “Come on. Frost won’t go anywhere until I have a look at your arm.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Can’t leave her like this. Look, she’s going to hurt herself.”

Emma is struggling in her bounds, twisting her neck and limbs in a manner that is painful to watch. Her glinting form was caught by Erik’s bonds mid-motion, so her struggles are limited by her own body.

“Besides, I just need her out of this state for a moment. To put her under,” Charles only now looks down at his left arm. A bloody stain on his forearm is gradually widening. What he previously thought was just a small burn intensifies greatly now, making his entire forearm throb.

“Can you do that?” asks Erik, taking a step back.

He is prepared to get a little bit insulted. Just a little bit. Although, Charles is lucky that he’s never stopped monitoring Erik’s surface thoughts, because he could have mistaken that for a doubt. It’s much more nuanced than that.

“Yes, I can,” gets out Charles with an itch deep inside, which leaves him wondering about a new sore spot discovered.

Emma doesn’t stop struggling. Perhaps, she doesn’t even realize that she might, she can stop. Her behavioral patterns are not those of a completely sane person.

“Well, if you don’t have any handy ideas, I’ve got to improvise,” Erik mutters and clenches his raised fist.

The band round her throat grinds into diamond, crushing and sawing the edges of the beautiful stone.

Charles looks to the side. He almost tells Erik to stop when Emma’s body turns normal again, as abruptly as it transformed. He reacts immediately, reaching out and shoving in his concentrated will. It is akin to hitting her with a hammer on the head. To say that Charles despises doing that would be an understatement. When Emma sags in her bonds he exhales sharply and while Erik is depositing her on the bed, he takes a few unsteady steps to Erik’s chair. On looking down he notices that he’s been dripping blood on the floor: red droplets mark his way across the med bay.

“You look like you could use some hard drink,” Erik is wordlessly asking a permission to look at his arm.

“You know,” Charles lays his hand on the table, muttering, “this wrongness in her, it’s unlike anything I have seen or imagined. Like her powers got turned inside out. I have memories of her, real memories of interacting with her telepathically and I can tell you that her mind is one of the most organized I’ve seen. It is trashed now. I believe, that the damage even might be organic. It is like a war zone in there.”

“You mean?”

“Feels like someone struggled to overpower her on her own grounds,” Charles clenches his jaw against a flare of pain when Erik meticulously rolls up his sleeve. “I’m not adept at psychic damage. It is her field, if anything. I’m just guessing.”

Erik’s precise movements don’t show it, but Charles is aware of him putting a lid on tendrils of pain which are summoned by the words. He begins cleaning the wound with a gel that numbs Charles forearm nicely.

“Could it be that she was influenced by the same radiation anomaly like Pryde and Drake?”

Charles feels the oddest mixture of dread and hope projected by him.

“Deep, but neat. I’ll reknit tissue with laser and it will be alright. Be prepared for residual pain for a few hours, though.”

“Thanks,” Charles considers Erik’s earlier question once again, but no. There is knowledge in him, seemingly out of nowhere, which warns him against looking for simple answers.

“Ready?” asks him Erik, his voice tearing Charles from his musings.

His touch is firm. It grounds Charles in reality of sitting by Erik’s side, with a slowly bleeding gash in his forearm, on a ship taking them far away from the planet he might have called home.

Charles merely holds Erik’s eyes and nods, turning his focus to Erik’s mindscape, shamelessly leaning on warmth and Erik’s bright resolve to do things right.

 

 

***

 

Hela, the planet they landed on, can’t be called hospitable. Its’ gravity is weaker than your ordinary human is accustomed to. The blanket of thin atmosphere makes nights freezing and days furiously hot. Charles checks the scanner for any life signs in the radius. Tiny animals are crawling out while darkness is falling in this part of the globe. The spot near the very lake Charles has chosen for landing appears uninhabited, but for chunks of abandoned mining equipment on the shore. When screen filters are down, he can finally enjoy the purples and blues of the dusk. Not that red, wind-swept terrain is a sight for sore eyes, but it has its’ rough appeal. Scarce vegetation is brownish and thorny. What used to be a communication tower is dangerously leaning over the ruffled lake, throwing an eerie shadow on the distorted water mirror.

_Have you been here before?_

Erik, from the airlock module, responds with a _yes_. He adds that though the weather was hell, he rather enjoyed the change in gravity.

Charles follows their progress while he and Bobby climb into a speeder, which will get them to a rendezvous with Erik’s contact. Since they need to repair the ship without revealing themselves, it promises to be tricky. He tracks them for a little while with his mind until Kitty enters the bridge and he withdraws his attention.

“Professor, have you got a moment?”

“Of course,” he turns, smiles slightly, noting a low-burning hearth of agitation she is carrying within.

“As you are aware, I’ve been talking with Peter these past few days and I think you shouldn’t leave him here,” she fumbles a little. “Well, I meant, we should give him a chance at decent education at least. He certainly won’t be getting one here, on the outskirts of the Union.”

Charles knows why she waited until Erik is gone to approach him.

“I share your concerns. This young man’s life was altered by me, so I feel responsible for him. Yet, Kathrine, my dear, all of us right now are dangerous company. I’m not completely sure what we are up against and endangering one more life doesn’t seem like a sensible choice to me,” he lifts up his hand, sensing her indignation. “Trust me, I’ve been thinking what we should do. Under different circumstances, I’d have at least offered Peter an opportunity. But now? When someone out there is conspiring against my,” he stumbles a bit, but finds his voice again, “my closest friend… And when we don’t even know the extent of danger we are facing?”

Incapable of process his reasoning Kitty leaves, fuming inside, her emotions a tight, heated knot of indignation, frustration and disappointment. When she strides out a hybrid slides in, grey-skinned and threatening, with eyes madly whirling about, which means upset in Charles’ observational dictionary.

“Why did Master leave without us?”

Ah, that. Erik didn’t care to explain himself, so Charles is their next logical source of information.

“He doesn’t want to give away his presence when he reaches a human settlement, guys. Sorry, but you’re very distinctive,” Charles holds on to Kitty’s mind while she slips on a suit and slides outside.

It must be getting rather cold out there, but Charles doesn’t detect any intention to do any reckless things. She just wants to clear her mind and to be somewhere which is not onboard might help her, she thinks.

He does a sweeping check: Peter is idly listening to music, picturing all juvenile things he could do to that dumbass Drake if only he had his speed. Hybrids are just, well, there. Emma is still, her mind is almost flat-lined.

Charles doesn’t think about it. He just gets up and his feet take him and his curious companion to the med bay.

“What are you going to do?” asks the hybrid in his hissing manner, pulling Charles from his silent staring at nothing in particular.

“I will try reconstructing her mind. Maybe, watch some memories if possible,” says Charles truthfully, pulling a chair to Emma’s bed.

The hybrid comes closer, doing his not-quite-sniffing again.

“Can I see?”

“I’m afraid, you can’t, my telepathy-resistant friend,” says Charles with a rueful smile, pausing to pat the bold head. “If you’d like, you can keep a watch over my body. Though, I won’t be gone long, frankly speaking.”

Emma’s hand is cool when he takes it in his, even though he doesn’t have to, he is quite capable of reaching inside her head without a direct contact. It’s about boundaries. He wants to warn her this way, to offer her some kind of solace. Because when he is looking at her terribly exhausted face, with hollowed eyes and cheeks and pale skin so thinned he can see the tapestry of blood vessels underneath, he can’t help thinking of Erik’s _Charles_. His counterpart who died at the hands of a madman. Probably, in the end all but the last layers of his mind peeled off by force. Charles didn’t know whether he himself is capable of withstanding such thing and not giving in. Having his receptors burned out completely, ridden with fiery pain. Much like Emma is right now, albeit minus continuing torture.

The truth is, he believes that he is weaker. No, rather he’s afraid he’s weaker. Not in terms of his gift, because genetically he’s as perfect a copy as anyone could hope to be. Only, he is certainly weaker than the _Charles’ construct_ he can see in Erik’s mind or the collective image Kitty and Drake are sharing. An episode with Emma was such a direct testimony of this.

Charles lets go of these thoughts, because he has a task at hand. Moping can wait, he firmly decides.

Emma’s long, slender fingers are lifeless in his. As cold as before. Screening showed the rapid growth of degenerative neural structures. Erik, whose expertise is unquestionably wider in this field, said that her genes were altered abnormally fast. And not for the good cause.

“Could you show me what happened to you? Please,” whispers Charles quietly as he slips into her mind.

He materializes in a white, bare room with slowly shifting walls. It confirms his impression that the telepath he is trying to locate was deliberately erasing any hints of her presence. Nonetheless, Charles doesn’t attempt to force himself onto the deeper layers of her mind. Instead, he sits right on the floor, cross-legged, and pulls the tendrils of his power in. Little by little. He departs from his custom so far as to ease down his habitual shields. He wants to pass forward undetected, needs to merge in with her mindscape, in spite of lingering dangers of such endeavor.

Time passes by, the mood in the room is shifting to grim, faint whispers and murmurs started to emerge. As well as blood-red vines creeping along the floor and the walls, artificial emanations of a contagion.

Charles is waiting, patiently, keeping his presence subdued until the room dissolves completely, devoured by all-consuming vines, that begin to crawl up his body.

A shift feels like he had some icy water poured over his head.

He blinks and then he’s sitting on the floor made of fancy glass, in a pristine, opulently decorated room with large windows facing the clouds.

Emma is sitting in the armchair by the grand window. Her soul-image is that of a beautiful woman in a white ceremonial suit. There is one detail amiss, though. She slightly turns her head in his direction and Charles sees a bandage over her eyes.

“Xavier,” she says coldly, “you should be dead.”

“This will never get old,” sighs Charles, getting up and walking towards her. “I should be, yet I am not. I suppose you know why I am here.”

“Do you?” she remarks.

Charles stops. Unexpected rumbling catches his attention.

“As to that, believe me or not I have helping you on my mind,” he says, dismissing low rumbling for now.

“I hate to sound dramatic, dear,” her smile is grotesquely wide, “but there is nothing you can do for me. I’m trapped in here.”

He can read defeat in her, although there is also determination left.

“Emma, I really want to help,” he is saying while rumbling intensifies. “You know that I can.”

“Oh, I do. Your powers are wasted on you,” she inclines her head. “You’re afraid. You shouldn’t have come in here afraid.”

He can feel pressure everywhere, his brain accepting that as real and urging him to flee.

“Please,” despite overwhelming tension Charles takes one more step forward and kneels by her armchair. “You have to work with me. Tell me what happened. Where do I begin?”

“It got me,” she bends so her face is inches from his, “now is your turn.”

The bandage round her eyes is gone in an instant. Pools of swirling red light are there. Charles knows, with horrifying clarity, that he has just been spotted. No matter what spaces separate him and this being.

He immediately feels naked under that stare, though his shields should be in place and holding. It sets his teeth on edge, this feeling of being skinned alive in all possible senses.

Too strained for finesse, with his mind on fire, he blindly grabs what’s left of Emma’s sanity. It’s a fight for concentration unlike any other. It’s a burn so strong that his shields are bending under onslaught.

Charles pushes back, hard, and opens his eyes to the white lights of the med bay. The lights cut into his eyes and he gasps for air with a throat which feels sore from screaming. That smoldering heat is still pulsing in his head as though nausea is not enough.

He twists out of the hybrid’s grip, rolls over and promptly gets sick.

The sound of Kitty’s footsteps is reverberating everywhere so it seems. The hybrid is holding him up again and Charles knows that if not for that, he would have been lying face down in his own mess. But he cares little for that.

 _Erik_ , he calls out, and when he feels a responding tug in the back of his hurting head he nearly gets sick again.

 _Run_ , he sends desperately as his vision is turning dark, _we need to run_.  
  
  
  


 


	5. Onfall

  


 

 

Air smells of ozone. This is the first thing Charles comprehends when he snaps back to his senses. His head is sore and he struggles to keep the tendrils of his power coiled inside. An instinct to protect the others from the pain he is feeling has been ingrained deeply. He is insanely glad for this foresight.

After the smell and pain, everything else is coming back, including vibration of the surface he is lying on and sounds. Drake’s agitated voice is raised.

“I’m not a nurse. Dammit, Kitty! If something happens to him on my watch and Eisenhardt will kill me — Kitty?”

There is a characteristic noise intercom makes when someone forcibly cuts off the connection. It is followed by Bobby huffing out a curse.

Charles squints up at the ceiling. Though the lights are dimmed, his eyes hurt, as though grained with sand and he closes them again.

“Bobby,” he scarcely gets out, the sound coming out of his throat doesn’t resemble his voice at all.

“Professor,” Bobby rushes to him and there, sure enough, there is a hybrid in his way. “Oh, come on, spider-man, let go.”

Charles scarcely turns his head to the side just in time to see Bobby turn his arm into ice and pull it out of the hybrid’s grip.

His eyes slide shut again.

“I am not touching him, alright?” gasps Bobby and his voice drifts closer. “I’m so glad you’re awake you have no idea! Lord Eisenhardt advised against touching you while you are hurting. Because, I quote “you might fry a few functional brain cells left”, which was an insult, I get it… not stupid…”

The rest of his words are swallowed by thumping in Charles’ temples, so intense that his ears start to ring dully. In vain does he attempt to hold it all at bay. When pain leaves an opening Charles registers earlier vibration turning into violent trembling. It’s the ship, his sore mind supplies. Maximum velocity. He doesn’t even have it in him to worry about the core holding up.

Aching as he is, he appreciates passing out.

 

  
  
***

  
  
His next awakening is more gradual and devoid of immediate pain. However, this peculiar feeling as though his head is stuffed with cotton comes after he’s been dosed with an anesthetic, which, Charles believes, might be just the case. His other senses are there, just on the edge of his reach. He sensibly reconsiders extending his telepathy farther beyond picking out five faint life-signs, one of them being Erik’s.

He feels dull, his body is stone-heavy, but at least he can open his eyes without cringing.

Upon opening them, he finds himself being stared at. A hybrid is watching him a bit closely for Charles’ liking. It presses a button that makes the transparent lid over Charles slide away.

“You are awake,” it proclaims, standing up and moving to the intercom by the door.

Charles can only groan in response. Thinking is an exhausting process, though he gets an idea that he should be thinking of something important right now.

Instead, his half-lidded eyes wander about as he takes in a med bay, which looks like it has been housing a small tornado. Even Erik’s equipment is not shelved properly. Someone has left empty food containers on the chair near his med pod. Wait a moment? A med pod? He remembers passing out in bed. The med pod was occupied by Emma.

Here his slow thoughts stutter, instantly horrified, as he’s thinking back to that encounter inside his head. His heart picks up a rhythm and he feels a tightening in his chest. They did escape in time, right? A split second of being torn apart by shrill fear almost gives him an out-of-body experience. But it should be fine, he tells himself, rationalizing preventing him from blindly unfolding his powers, as exhausted as his telepathy is right now. It’s fine. Everything’s good because otherwise he could be waking up in a different fashion or not waking up at all.

The hybrid stays by his side while Charles is trying to force out a couple of questions. It is listening to him carefully, but his articulation leaves much to be desired, so the hybrid starts asking him stuff in return.

Erik interrupts their little misunderstanding exchange by running in through the doors. He looks at Charles for a long moment, eyes troubled and uncharacteristically wide. Charles can read that expression without his telepathy: it appears when Erik’s inner processing is coming to a screeching halt.

“Hey,” Charles rasps and softly pats the padded surface he’s lying on. “Come closer, please.”

Erik scowls, but it’s light-hearted, Charles can tell.

“Go help the girl,” he tells the hybrid and takes his place next to Charles.

Charles is glad that he needn’t strain his throat with Erik, because Erik snatches some cylinder from his cabinet with a sharp flick of his wrist and lets Charles take a careful seep of its cool contents through a curiously flexible straw. It’s a bliss on his raw throat.

“Excellent,” he manages afterwards when hoarseness subsides, “Can I have an update for dessert now?”

Erik indulges him.

“Certainly. My generosity knows no limits,” he pronounces regally, with a slight tightening in the corners of his clouded grey eyes. 

 _But a checkup comes first. Can you hear me?_ he projects loudly and Charles cringes slightly.

“Yes, though I’d rather not,” he replies out loud and before Erik’s face falls he adds. “It’s completely fine, very fuzzy though. My head. It healed faster than, well, last time. I just need some time to gather it together.”

Last time was precisely the time when Erik, Max at the time, and he had a falling out, which resulted in Charles crippling himself for a while after overexerting his powers. Another surprise is that apparently that memory doesn’t hurt as much as it used to before.

After Erik checks his vitals he deems Charles fit for leaving the med bay. While Charles is easing himself out of med pod, he privately thinks that he would have left anyway. Though, he is trying to take it easy, carefully putting one foot in front of the other.

Erik is hovering beside all the way down to his cabin, but he lets Charles make his way on his own.

“Left wing took extensive damage, but hybrids are patching it up. Pryde is recalibrating a mainframe and it’s not going smoothly. There was a radiation leak when the core was deformed during the jump. Like you predicted,” he says. “She claims we need some really sophisticated tech to reproduce an alloy like that. We’re not getting it here, obviously.”

“Where is ‘here’?” asks Charles quietly, dreading an answer.

“We don’t know where the jump brought us, but I’m working on reprogramming the navigation systems. Have a look,” Erik comes to the side panel they are passing and activates it. “Camouflage down. Filters 80 percent.”

The view drives it home like nothing else: an empty, frozen, white expanse of ice with greenish skies above on one side and gleaming waters on the other. The hull of their ship is precautiously lying on the edge of the cliff. Charles is pulled closer by an enticing danger of a sheer slope. As far as his eyes can discern, there is dark ocean down there, just below where they are.

“I had to crash-land it here. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Who came after me?” Charles swallows hard, “After I called you?”

Erik presses his lips in a tight, even line. His face is pale, probably from the lack of sleep. He even got stains on the front of his long sleeve. Repairs gone rough. Though, his lean frame looks unquestionably solid and strong to Charles, who is on the search for relief. 

“Union fighter jets. Fifteen of them. I assume this is Summer’s regular strike-and-go team on stand-by,” Erik says, inflectionless.

“So, I can presume, that the Council and United Forces are infiltrated,” Charles voices their thoughts quietly.

“It took two years to put to waste everything we fought for,” says Erik dryly. “Well, I almost wish to say it was a surprise.”

It’s nothing new for him, Charles muses darkly. Erik always had an adversary or two trying to rip him apart, so his thought process is easy to predict. On the other hand, Charles never knew what it meant to become a fugitive or a public enemy. A knot of fear twists in his gut. It won’t go away.

“Charles?”

“Yes?” his eyes dart to Erik’s.

“You’re spacing out.”

“Right,” Charles drags his fingers through his hair, noticing how unpleasant it appears to be, grimy like that. No one changed him out of his soiled jumpsuit too: a wariness to touch a telepath in distress is understandable. “I really need a shower.”

His thoughts are lazy lumps of a glue-like substance. He also needs to blink several times to focus on Erik’s face. The urge to question Charles is totally justified. It is rolling from him in waves, so heavy, that being on the receiving end is stifling.

“I’m afraid I can’t sate your curiosity very well,” Charles says at last. “I don’t know whether it’s a mutant, but I doubt this hive mind is humanoid. I’m sure when it attacked Emma, it left a sprout. Think of it like a trigger inside her mind.”

Erik studies him intently. He is calculating the odds, it figures.

“You’d tell me if you felt or noticed anything out of the ordinary about yourself.”

It stings. For reasons Erik doesn’t even know.

“I am sorry, Erik,” Charles gets out and the burst of emotion is coming from within him this time.

“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” frowns Erik.

“No, you don’t,” he says wryly, riding out all confusing feelings that bounce back and forth in his headspace. “I admit I’m a bit disoriented for this conversation.”

“Go shower, then. I can bring you something to eat,” immediately reacts Erik, whilst his thoughts adopt a familiar refrain of ‘giving Charles space’.

Charles keeps his guilt inside and his eyes glued to Erik’s back as he disappears around the corner.

When he’s readjusting the temperature settings in the shower booth, he suddenly realizes, that he is not aware of their energy preserving status. How much can they spare at all with their ship systems isolated? He reaches out for Kitty’s mind, engaged in instructing hybrids in the engine room. Her emotions spike with giddy glee when she hears him, however she quickly collects herself and struggles to tell him everything at once. Her half-baked thoughts are mounting fast: thrusters are in terrible state because of rough landing, she will deal with them later; she managed to seal the radiation leak, but the core is functioning on one fifth of its capacity; oh, and Bobby is having a time of his life outside; yes, if her math is correct, they have about a standard month of a fully sustained life support on the ship — about one and a half if they minimize power consumption.

Charles cuts their connection after thanking her. Involuntary, he launches into calculating their odds should they abandon the ship. Though his rational mind tells him that they have all chances of surviving out there if they utilize Bobby’s powers, it doesn’t quell all of his unease. Only partially relieved, he slips out of his clothes, steps under a hot spray and tilts his head up.

Water feels magical on his skin, especially on his face and, when he hangs his head down, on the line of his spine. Soapy stream washes some residual soreness and bitterness away, even the sick feeling in his gut eases a fraction.

Just when a warm breeze of the automatic dryer finishes gently airing his skin, Charles hears Erik coming in. When he steps out, Erik politely averts his eyes.

Charles drapes a large blanker over himself and climbs into his bed, sitting on folded legs and drawing the blanket tighter. Even if Erik has a remark about this quirky arrangement he keeps it to himself.

He directs a floating tray to hover within Charles’ close reach and watches with amusement as Charles sneaks out a hand from his cozy tent to check what’s under the lids.

“I’m not sure,” Charles grumbles, not a good judge of his body’s needs at the moment. “I do feel hungry, sort of, but it is muddled. Is it fine if I eat something solid, by the way?”

“Totally,” assures him Erik, making himself comfortable in Charles’ hefty convertible.

But picking at food is not enough to set his mind onto the proper path.

“So?” begins Erik, hiding his urge to know behind a barely-there smile. “Will you say something or not?”

Well, he has been very patient. It had to end eventually. After all, stalling is so not in Erik’s character.

“I think I will,” braces himself Charles, lifting up his eyes and catching Erik’s. “Only, it’s not about our current predicament, as precarious as it is. It’s about us, Erik. You and me.”

Caught off guard, Erik grimaces and Charles tightens his grip on the blanket.

He can hear very clearly what the man is thinking, can almost taste keen apprehension, because Erik was and is putting his stakes high. So far, he has yielded reign over everything to Charles. His initial promise to give Charles as much time as he needs and to honor Charles’ wishes has drove himself and Charles to exhaustion of sorts.

“Let me reassure you,” Charles is saying softly, “it’s not what you’re thinking. I,” he stops, blinking away sudden black dots.

‘I was an idiot’ he wants to add. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“You just projected that,” mutters Erik, eyeing him critically. “Charles, you don’t give yourself enough credit. And I’m genuinely worried about you right now.”

“I’m serious. Please, let me finish,” he is doing his best at the moment to come up with proper words and force down another heavy lump in his throat.

Why is it so complicated? Shouldn’t he take it easy, knowing the depth of Erik’s affection?

Mindful of his request, Erik has fallen intensely silent, which is something only he can pull off.

So now, while he is thinking how to phrase it under Erik’s attentive gaze, he suddenly starts to _see_. His entitlement, moments of overconfidence and unreasonable reliance on his powers. He is drowsy, but he is also aware. More aware than he’s been lately.

“I believe, it was working: you and me. Back there on the island. I couldn’t acknowledge it before. It hasn’t fully sunk in. You should know that it is partially related to my telepathy… In retrospect, it often makes me separate incompatible cognitions from each other.”

There is a beat and then Erik’s elation bursts through as he processes his words and Charles can’t help smiling, holding Erik’s grey eyes, watching how emotions transform his expression and mirroring his joy.

As if on cue, another bout of dullness comes by, makes him close his eyes for a brief second. And then.

 _You are such a sap_ , he hears, ice spreading under his skin. _What happened to living as though you have another mockup life to live? Do you not enjoy being lodged in permanent past anymore?_

It is so loud and clear that it stupefies him for a moment. He can’t attribute that to a fatigue. Erik is saying something meanwhile, but his words just slide off, as if hitting a screen, completely incomprehensible.

Charles’ heart seizes, still and in sudden dismay. At almost the same instant Erik moves forward, grabs him by the shoulders, squeezes tight, gives him a shake and at last his words start filtering in. The tray rattles to the ground after Erik shoves it aside. It works as a switch.

“— look at me. Come on, Charles,” he speaks desperately. “Come on.”

“I’m back,” rasps Charles, clumsily untangling his hand from under the blanket and clutching Erik’s arm.

Everything is very, very numb, to the point that his tongue feels big and heavy and he can barely utter words.

“So, where were we?” he tries and it pulls a strangled sound out of Erik.

Charles’ own bangs have flopped to the front, almost over his eyes, but he’s too tired to sweep them up.

“Charles, I know what I felt. You turned different. As if it wasn’t you at all. What was that?” he almost growls, letting go of him and sitting beside him on the bed, eyes actively running all over him.

“I’m beginning to understand,” Charles gulps, tilts his head back, propping himself against the wall. An alien presence is submerged for now, yet he can feel its’ traces lingering. “I wanted to save Emma. Our minds weren’t intertwined to a dangerous degree or so I thought. We should have scarcely touched, but, truth be told, I was more focused on coming out intact and apparently merged us in the process.”

He winces miserably.

“She is, as expected, critical of my life choices and isn’t shy about it.”

“I’ve always suspected that she was trouble,” Erik sighs, rubbing weariness from his face. “Can you get rid of her? As in ‘clear’ your head? You know what I mean.”

Charles gives him a flat sideways look.

“Of course, you wouldn’t want to,” Erik snorts, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

A pause comes, during which Charles is tiredly marveling how this is his life. They were having a moment, rare as it was. That was the closest Charles came to saying that he needed Erik, will need him always. One of a few friends he truly wished he would never lose. Speaking of which, it is not exactly healthy that they barely socialize with anyone else except for each other.

They turn face to face simultaneously, Charles already has it, just on the tip of his tongue and Erik seems to be willing to speak too.

But Erik’s wrist transmitter comes alive, blinking red, and they both look at it. The signal acts like a dampener, it pins Charles tongue in place and forces him to reevaluate his sluggish state of mind.

“Go,” he nods to Erik, as the shadows in the corners of his eyes grow thicker.

Erik hesitates, so Charles gives him a mental nudge, cheating a bit.

A rattle and hum of a few familiar minds and the promise of a better tomorrow pull him down gently. He shields himself tighter before falling into the abyss of sleep.

 

 

***

 

  
  
Bobby taps glass with an icy finger, radiating a sense of accomplishment.

“Me and Eisenhardt put it together from an old med pod, a few thermal stabilizers and your suit’s microcircuits. We had to work very fast.”

Nothing alien stirs inside Charles when he looks at Emma’s body trapped in cryogenic capsule. Though, it doesn’t mean that the sight doesn’t fill him with sadness. If Erik resorted to this, it means there was nothing else he could do.

“We are lucky to have you onboard, Bobby,” he says instead, projecting warmth and support.

His words draw Bobby back from his involuntary recollections of an attack, memory of being shot at and fighting to keep everyone alive.

“Because I can freeze you if you’re about to die?” he huffs, but his mind switches off to a task at hand, memories dimming not without Charles’ contribution. He smiles a small smile, “Okay, back to maintenance.”

“What happened to this drone?”

“I nicked it yesterday, by accident,” Bobby scrunches his nose. “Eisenhardt saw it or felt it. I don’t even know. The man is omnipresent.”

“Erik does share a belief that we must always repair what we damaged,” muses Charles aloud.

Bobby just shakes his head, peering at the tablet with Kitty’s instructions. His eyes are confused.

Charles turns to leave, but by the doors he glances back at Bobby’s disheveled, brown head bent over the tapestry of wires that now makes up the belly of the drone. Like the rest of the crew he looks worse for wear, weighted down by the knowledge that the enemy they are up against is ridiculously powerful.

It’s a strange, yet practical decision to put Emma’s capsule with the rest of their equipment. However, there is something disturbing about her body being stocked among a few of Charles’ prototypes, drones and other reserved parts. The idea is definitely Erik’s, decides Charles, picking up his pace.

He is hit by a jab of frustration when he is nearing a bridge.

Unsurprisingly, Peter is caught sneaking round the corner, darting quick glances back and forth. Charles, who in his grey uniform practically blends in with the ship, briefly redirects Peter’s attention from his person for good measure.

He then folds his arms and leans on the wall as Peter passes him. The boy feels incredibly smug, while Charles is picking at his thoughts. There’s really nothing incriminating, except for the fact that Peter learned to recalibrate door locks after watching Kitty, and earlier Charles work with circuit boards. He is creeping back to his cabin, because he’s heard Erik talking. The trepidation of facing Eisenhardt in a foul mood rolled through him and he decided not to test his luck.

On the bridge, Erik is sourly bouncing a few of metal balls over his hand, making them split and remerge mid motion. Charles’ intrusion interrupts his meditative thinking, no doubt a much needed respite.

When Erik glances over his shoulder his face lights up, despite bleak reflections spiraling in his headspace. It’s flattering and a tiny bit mortifying at the same time.

Charles taps into his mind to find out what the problem is. They don’t have enough spare parts to mend the thrusters, so the ship won’t be taking off. Charles can sense that Erik is currently probing the hull, stretching his awareness and entertaining an idea of lifting it up on his own.

“Wait a minute,” Charles says, “are you absolutely sure you can manage?”

A moment passes, Erik blinks and then scowls.

“I’m fine already,” he huffs, somewhat listlessly. “Will probably ask Drake to back me up anyway.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Glad that you approve,” he smirks and explains himself. “Just want to move it off this damn cliff. A geostorm is coming: you should see the screenings. It’s really something. Sweeps up the globe in one go.”

Leaving the atmosphere, or, rather, trying to while their ship is in this state is not an option. It goes unsaid. And, the chance that their distress signal will be picked in this galactic quadrant is on the slim side. Charles casts his eyes out, watching white gigantic slopes and tall peaks, which appear eternal. Two pale moons are peeking out from the gathering clouds, greeting a night.

After Erik leaves, fetching Bobby on his way out, Charles fits himself into the pilot’s seat. Ghostlike sensation is tickling his nerves, an urge to be somewhere else, to run, to move as fast as possible. A pity, no one of them has a power to conjure spare parts out of thin air.

Emma’s presence is but a quietly taunting whisper in the background. As it goes, she doesn’t have as much free will as Erik is privately afraid she might. Her signature cool attitude is only shimmering under the surface.

Charles is dutifully watching over control panel and Erik’s mind while he and Bobby are floating their ship away from the edge. Bobby’s excitement and Erik’s attentive focus blend into a weird combination. Based on what Charles is receiving through their connection, Erik’s approach to wielding his powers has shifted. There is new clarity to his concentration, as though Erik himself became lighter, incredibly well-attuned not only to the possibilities granted by his mutation, but accepting his limitations.

Everything changes in a matter of milliseconds.

Bright, white light cuts into Charles’ eyes and his mind lashes out on impulse.

His head snaps back suddenly. He feels abrupt rough landing in his bones.  Clutching hand-rests, he tries to reach out again, but there’s nobody there. While blinking tears out of his eyes he brushes past Kitty and Peter. But when he attempts to check on Bobby and Erik and detects a feeble thread of barely brimming consciousness, something happens to his insides.

 _Supersonic shockwave_ , he hears a whisper courtesy of a woman inside his head.

Charles takes command of his eyesight, switching off receptors affected by the blast. It immediately gets better and he blinks his wet eyes and activates the scanners. If he can’t detect them telepathically, technology might.

 _Kitty_ , he throws momentarily, _I need you outside asap_. _We’ve been attacked_. _Take hybrids with you._

On hearing his voice Kitty snaps up, stupefied after her fall.

 _On it_ , she replies, shaken.

The display of one of the scanners finally beeps, flashing out a warning. Charles peers at four heat signatures, descending upon them. It certainly doesn’t look like  Union ops, he is thinking quickly.

Also, Kitty won’t make it in time, he realizes and clenches his jaw, heart beating faster and faster, when he can’t wake Erik up. He doesn’t want to risk rising him just like that and putting a strain on his brain.

Bobby, though… It feels like he’s almost come to his senses, so Charles simply gives him a push, meanwhile sparing a fraction of his concentration to shield each human member of their group, just in case.

And, as he blinks open Bobby’s eyes, he rapidly dives deeper into his mind, still hazy after the shockwave. He is desperately gathering every ounce of power Bobby has and pulling. Bobby’s potential is marvelous. Even at first peek into his mind Charles can glimpse immense possibilities. Emma too is impressed.

As their adversaries descend upon the ground, Charles rises Booby’s head. The storm is whirling snow around — his human eyes can see next to nothing. But, when he taps into Bobby’s mutation, he can sense it: every molecule of water, bound or not, every shift in the surroundings, which are truly his domain.

Even before a series of red phaser blasts fly past him, Charles turns his entire body into solid ice and dashes to the side. A wall of ice springs up between him and his attackers.

He senses an unmoving body in the snow and turns the terrain into a gliding slope. When he slides closer to Erik, he absently notes that the visor in his helmet is cracked. Charles’ focus waves just a little. Unfortunately, it’s enough to get hit.

Fire blast shatters his right arm, an echo of shock and not quite hurt pierces through Bobby and resonates within Charles.

He hears Kitty’s mental scream of terror.

 _Enough slacking_ , Xavier, Emma jolts him harshly.

Back on the bridge, Charles takes a deep breath, mentally bracing himself. His senses, those responsible for monitoring everyone in the back of his mind, are telling him that Kitty is dragging Erik away from the line of fire, while hybrids engage in a fight.

Good. A brief window will give them all an opportunity to regroup.

Meanwhile, a resonating pressure is building up in Bobby, who is trying to swing icy projectiles and distract those people from Kitty and the rest. He is feeling dangerously sluggish: being hit by a shockwave takes its’ toll. But Charles nudges him up again, makes him reconstruct his arm. Tapping into such potential is heady. And, this time Charles absolutely doesn’t hold back. This urge in him, it is prompting him to do more, to squeeze everything he can from Bobby, to put him entirely under Charles’ reign.

His mind has always been his ultimate weapon. And, Charles discovers that the same is true for Bobby. So simple, really. Charles reaches out, one last time, through storm and wind, and swirling snow and pins those four men down, turning every single molecule in their body into ice.

 _Take cover_ , he hears. Emma’s abrupt shout is muffled, as though, she is screaming at him hundreds upon hundreds of miles away.

Reeling from the call, Charles forcibly snaps his connection with Bobby and pulls himself back into his body.

Only in time to see how an observation screen he is looking at is pierced by a purple flash.

In the split second, he throws himself out of the pilot’s seat and onto the floor, as a roar of storm tears in. A single breath of acid outside air he inhales without thinking burns a path through his lungs. Charles rapidly switches off those receptors and orders his body not to take another breath.

He rolls to the side just when the same purple light nearly whips his head off. Emma helps, pushing him up and evading another hit with agility Charles would never be capable of. Charles’ eyes, blinded by raging storm this time, can barely make out a dark figure of an assassin advancing again. Emma knows that signature energy blade very well. Charles, whose heads starts gradually clouding from lack of air, mutely observes how Emma is rapidly thinking of the ways to subdue this mercenary.

When the doors to the bridge whoosh open to reveal Peter, Charles startles a little. Shadows are creeping back into his eyes, despite his effort. Wind tosses in more snow and devastating cold and Peter gapes at the picture, paling abruptly.

It’s difficult to say what happens first: the assassin launches at Peter, he yelps or Charles slides into his mind.

Shadows finally cover everything.

Next thing Charles knows, he is gasping in air, while Peter’s face is swimming into a blurry focus.

“Are you alive!? Oh, shit… I can’t believe it, I did it! Whoa, I totally did it, ” Peter is rambling, grinning like mad. He is holding onto the railing, which runs along the corridor, and Charles immediately clutches it too.

Busy processing his surrounding, Charles is marveling how he’s still standing. Oh, my, Peter is super-fast, indeed. His legs are shaking hard and he is this close to sliding down onto the floor. What happened to the assassin?

When he attempts to speak, his vocal cords burn as if cut, so Charles plucks a much-needed answer straight from Peter’s head. The other’s perspective is somewhat fragmented: Peter recalls his bout of fear, his elation an instant his powers kicked in and an urge to save Charles, which took him by surprise. Charles also finds out that he slammed the masked person with the sword into the wall meanwhile and made sure that the doors to the bridge are on the lockdown.

Bending forward, Charles coughs into his hand: something bad rattles inside his chest, but he chooses not to think about it now.

 _Peter_ , he calls the boy, because he can’t stop coughing out his lungs. _Peter, listen. It will not delay her._

“What? Why?” Peter nearly jumps up when he hears Charles in his head.

Unfortunately, a loud sizzling sound from the direction of the bridge is enough of an answer. It serves like a frightful reminder, because poisonous cold immediately invades the corridor, cutting off Charles’ frantic need to inhale oxygen. Even as he grabs Peter’s hand, his gesture is clumsy, pathetically so.

For whatever reason, Peter is frozen on the spot, glassy-eyed. Charles detects a foreign presence pressing deeply into the boy’s mind a fraction too late.

As she confidently storms around the corner, with grace stemming from years of hunting down her targets, Charles thinks he meets her eyes in the shaded visor she is wearing. He grits his teeth, firmly shoving her off Peter’s mind, but the damage is done and the boy is crumbling down.

And though, he can still run, in theory, Charles won’t.

Planting his feet on the ground, Charles is blinking away black dots, which return to plague him again.

A moment seems extremely long, almost unnaturally drawn-out. It shatters with a gush of wind and a sudden groan of metal, the walls of the corridor coming together to snap her in between.

Needing not pretend anymore, Charles sinks down to his knees, holding on to the railing.

Erik, who comes into sight has blood on his face and also doesn’t have a helmet. He runs past her grotesquely mauled body, takes one look at Peter and extends his hand backwards.

“I’m sealing the breach,” he is saying, harsh and breathless, “let’s get you out of here now.”

 _How are you even speaking?_ marvels Charles, for whom each inhale feels like torture.

“Don’t forget that I was made and trained for surviving in hostile environments,” while Erik helps him up, his mind fills with worry and a tad of relief. “We must hurry or this storm will bury us here.”

_Their ship?_

“Exactly, it’s our only ticket out of here. So, don’t pass out yet.”

“Wasn’t going to,” rasps Charles stubbornly and meets his eyes.

Erik laughs a short pained laugh, tightening his grip on Charles’ elbow. His affection is like the best remedy — it has an effect like that of a bright sunlight breaking through on a perpetually grim day.

Embedded air filters, bless them, make it possible for him to breathe without fear that his lungs might be bleeding. Acutely aware of everyone’s minds again, he unfolds his powers to the limit, reaching in the distance and seizing the mind of the pilot daring enough not to wear a protector.

 

 

 

 


	6. Retreat

 

 

 

After everything that happened a finale itself was uneventful: they boarded a ship safely, Kitty immediately sprinted to the bridge, Charles’ lungs have ceased spasming with disturbing ache — it turned to moderate instead. Also, there was literal hell now outside. They had to witness it first hand while force marching across a plain, being beaten down by elements along the way. A rage of storm was simply overwhelming: lightning was striking non-stop and gale was flinging snow and ice around, pounding against the hull of the ship they claimed.

Charles can’t but notice that this heavily armed yacht seems like a tight fit for all of them. Usually these types of ships are designed with comfort in mind, but, upon getting inside, he realizes that this is clearly not the case.

Pulling off a spacesuit takes Charles longer than Erik. He is slow: his numb fingers don’t cooperate, sabotaging his progress. It earns him a questioning look, but Charles waves Erik away telepathically.

Seeing that a little crowd of hybrids and the stretcher with unconscious Peter is waiting for his orders, Erik leads them away from the hatch. Oh? A frown settles on his brow and Charles bites his lip, darting a remorseful glance at Bobby, who has assumed his human form as soon as the hatch shut them off. He has been sitting right next to the hatch all this time, cradling his mussed head in both hands. Like a mute statement to Charles’ extreme decisions.

“Bobby,” Charles lightly brushes his mind to attract attention, “how are you?”

Bobby doesn’t lift his head, but he mutters under his breath, barely audible.

“Tired.”

Panting from strain, Charles finally, finally pulls off his suit and, for a lack of any better place, just lays it by the wall. He feels like joining Bobby on the floor. Backlash, which he was trying to delay so hard, comes back with tremor in his limbs and sharp spikes of random pains — his brain’s revenge for locking down receptors.

“You need any help?” Charles halts instantaneously, his throat is so dry and raw that inhaled air feels like fragmented glass is rolling through.  

“Attention,” Kitty’s voice booms through an intercom. “Initiating take off in a minute. Brace yourselves, guys.”

“Come on,” Charles urges Bobby up, nearly swaying with added weight leaning on him.

They shuffle through the hatchway in such fashion. Charles doesn’t even know who is supporting who at this point.

“I realize that this is not the time, but, Bobby, I am sorry. For everything I made you do.”

While talking, he observes himself as though from afar, which is a startling sign.

“Are you insane?” Bobby groans, pushing himself away and falling onto the nearby inbuilt seat.

“Perhaps. A little, I’m afraid,” Charles grumbles and does the same, pulling the overhead protector down.

“It was amazing. I wish I wasn’t such a thick-headed moron when it comes to stuff like that,” Bobby huffs, and Charles’ telepathy detects a bitter prick of frustration spiking inside him. None of it is directed at Charles, however.

Somehow, instead of being angry with Charles, he is thinking of a woman with long white hair and azure eyes, bright like gems against brown skin. Her image is framed in great sadness, the kind emerging from a violently severed connection. She died in the perilous battle — the scene of the disaster he glimpses in Bobby’s mind is loading weigh on his shoulders. Charles awkwardly withdraws.

His mind has already made a connection between Bobby’s mentor and fragments of grim recollections of war days shared by Erik. She was such a brave person, indeed.

The hull begins trembling and Charles presses his head back into the padded socket. Just in time, because the ship seems to be jerked up and then down, proving first hand that geostorm is capable of cramping the utility of anything less than a battle carrier.

“Sorry! I’m getting in touch with the controls. Hold on until we breach troposphere,” comes Kitty’s anxious voice.

Apparently, Charles exhaustion is enough to beat even rough turbulence and human alarm tapping on his shields.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, he did lose the track. One moment his head simply snaps up and he sees Erik leaning in, obviously attempting to check on him. The patch of torn skin over his eyebrow and a gash on his chin have taken on pink colouring of the regenerated flesh. This is good, he took care of himself, thinks Charles absently. The ship is not shaking anymore. Great.

“Hybrids and our speedster are bunked up in the frame bay,” Erik is holding up a scanner to Charles’ chest. “Can you hold your breath, please?”

Charles does as he is told and feels dozens of tiny needles pricking at his lungs. He notices that Bobby is gone and sends Erik a question to distract himself from a searing sensation.

“Sent him there too,” Erik nods in approval at the scanner’s reading. “It’s the only room with sleeping berths here. Does it still hurt?”

“Some,” Charles confirms.

And, he never appreciated painless breathing enough, it figures.

He hears a hiss. Didn’t even notice when Erik moved his hand, though.

“Will kick in in a few,” tells him Erik, withdrawing. “But you’ll need inhalations to get better.”

“Later.”

Charles rubs his neck, not because it hurts, but to drive the blood into it and into his hands. His brain is more or less asleep, but, for reasons unknown, his body didn’t catch up.

Unable to succumb to slumbering, Charles follows Erik to the bridge. It’s as cramped as the rest of the ship. Two pilot chairs are fit side by side, with the third one squeezed in the corner by an ammunition and weapons display. Charles slinks past Erik and drops onto the second pilot’s chair.

“Where to?” asks them Kitty, fingers hovering over the panel.

Readings are telling them that the dimensional drive is powering up. Charles finds that he doesn’t know. Is there any shelter safe enough for at least a few days? The universe he remembers was never this connected, interstellar trips used to consume weeks or months, even years in extreme cases. It was much, much easier to hide or to get lost in the expanse of space, charted or not.

“We need allies and a real sanctuary,” hums Charles under his breath. “Even if jumping does take us away from those who are pursuing us, how long can we keep it up?”

“You’re making a scary point,” Kitty cranes her neck back, gazing at Erik. “To sum it up — I believe that we have acquired a common enemy.”

“Obviously. We can’t rule out a connection,” Erik grabs the back of Charles’ chair and bends forward, in between the seats.

Charles understands his intention and draws up a map of the quadrant, splaying it over the displays.

“Do you know any governor who might be able to offer us their protection planet-side?” speaks up Kitty again.

“And antagonize Summers and his fleet? No, don’t think so,” Erik peers at the corner of the map and then points to the star system in the zone which is commonly referred to as an old world.

Charles zooms it for them.

“I made sure that she’s hidden well,” says Erik. “But secrecy aside, we need to pay her a visit.”

“Who is this mysterious ‘she’?” Kitty asks and then pales a little when Charles wordlessly shares an image of the Empress he picked from Erik’s mind. “Oh… Alright. Didn’t know she was alive, but resurrection is a thing around here, it seems. Well, we get plenty spare lives left. Why not?"

Kitty is all innocence when she is saying it, yet Charles notices how her hand starts sinking through the panel and scrambles for calm and focus he can share. She inhales sharply when she registers his mental nudge.

“We are still travelling incognito. I have the old codes, which, let’s hope, can open a safe passage through the guardian belt,” Erik is explaining.

Glancing up, Kitty meets Charles’ eyes and mouths a thank you. She looks solid again.

“No objections?” asks Erik after a brief pause.

Knowing that he only forced himself to do so because he saw them exchanging glances brings a small smile to Charles’ lips.

“None, your Brightness,” reports Kitty briskly and Charles turns up to offer Erik a reassuring nod for trying.

 

  
  
***

 

 

The sky above them is the color of a washed out red. The other part of globe is already tainted with darkness.

On the way here, Charles tried to envision what those old planets look like as of now.

They say, since almost all people left for the stars due to extremely aggressive atmospheric contaminants, nature won fast battle with grand city complexes and monorails. If his memory doesn’t betray him, this part of the world was mainly considered a graveyard. Thus, everything here remained untouched long before and during the war.

Much to Charles’ surprise the scenery doesn’t look grim and devastatingly damaged.

As they were allowed through the guardian belt, the staff of the station also provided them with data on each planet’s ecosystem. While Erik was briefly scanning it, Charles took them down, through clouds heavy with the promise of rain.

They landed on the grass field, next to the gold and red forest crawling up the mountain slope. It looks nothing like a poisoned land Charles came to imagine. Therefore, he is gazing outside in wonder, charmed by healthy vegetation and lovely autumn palette.

“I just can’t help it. Sorry, but how do you have the codes?” asks Charles absently, collecting the data from outside sensors before deeming the atmosphere breathable. He realizes that he might sound invasive, but it is bugging him and he doesn’t want to read Erik’s mind for all answers. “What business might a warlord have with ‘graveyard’? This was the very world raided with proton bombs during the Uprising, wasn’t it? A tragic case study, right? Unless, you’re into reviving alien environments, which, no offence, is not what I believe is your choice of past-time.”

The red flash of Erik’s projected apprehension, not suppressed fast enough, pulls Charles’ slowly floating thoughts up, draws his focus.

“I had a safe house here. From the very begging,” says Erik brusquely, almost monotonously.

Not quite believing that this is it, Charles turns to him, waiting until Erik dives into explanations. It takes about a dozen heartbeats.

“There was… an acquaintance, a proconsul who was responsible for this area. They owed my house a favour, so ancient, that everybody all but forgot about it. But, as you might imagine, I was trying to overthrow the Union itself. I needed to pull at every string I could. One of them led me here. I never visited the place myself, but there should be an underground facility and quite a few factories set here to accommodate the needs of a potential army.”

It’s not that Charles doesn’t appreciate Erik’s new brand of frankness, though at times it reveals a tad too much.

“Alright,” he says with carefully maintained ease. “At least, there’s the actual safe house. And, despite my initial reservations, it looks like conservation policy did benefit the environment. The readings look fine,” Charles claps down on his stirring curiosity, because he observes falling darkness outside and it raises a question. “Did you warn them that we are coming?”

“I sent a message. No reply yet,” Erik stands up. “Normally, I’d say we wait. But, under the circumstances, I think we should just go and knock at the door.”

“Couldn’t spot it from above, but the drone I dispatched says the door we are looking for might be an hour walk away in the woods,” points out Charles, also standing up.

Due to movement an echo of dull pain spreads from the center of his chest. A cough breaks through and Charles holds his hand to his mouth.

“That must be perception camouflage. Charles, hold on,” Erik looks him up and down pointedly. “One, someone must stay on the bridge. Two, where are you going in your state?”

“Bobby has just woken up,” Charles narrows his eyes, returning a scrutiny, meanwhile asking a drowsy man to assist on the bridge. “He will take my place. Oh, and since Peter is awake, we should take him with us. I’d rather not leave two of them in close quarters, while Kitty is resting and hence unable to take them down a peg. Also, forgive me, Erik, but you look terrible too. As thrilling as our journey seems, it’s quite tiring for both of us. Equally.”

It elicits a groan out of Erik, but Charles counts it a fair win. Whatever energy he has left since the ambush, it’s depleting fast. Erik isn’t any better despite his poise. Besides, there’s literally no way to catch a wink of sleep onboard. It’s either nodding off in the chair or bunking on the floor — horrible options for Charles, who, unfortunately, got used to comfort throughout these years. If there’s a stroll between him and a soft, decent bed, so be it.

A light drizzle accompanied the sunset. After daylight disappears, aided by gathering clouds, a drone is lighting up their way down the winding path, covered with fallen leaves. A wet, thick, musty odor of foliage and warm ground tickles Charles’ nose. He barely holds in an urge to sneeze.

Thankfully, they have encountered an almost clean, albeit curving path. Less nice is the fact that utterly bored Peter won’t stop talking.

“I’m getting tired of being knocked down by the telepaths,” he huffs morosely, having exhausted all previous topics.

“I can’t help you there,” deadpans Erik, picking up speed.

Peter follows right in his footsteps. All Charles sees are their backs.

“It’s harsh, man. I’ll let you know something: it hurts. My head’s kinda dizzy even now. And, well, I know you get one. The protector. Back on the ship.”

 _Charles_ , projects Erik strongly, _do something_ _._ _Because I’m wrestling with the idea to shut him up for good._

“Peter, if you wear it, I won’t be able to help you should something happen. We’re on the same side, after all,” Charles lightly claps him on the back of his wet jacket, moving level with him. “By the way, I meant to mention — you made a real difference back then.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you asked me along just because you wanted me off board,” he points out shrewdly and shrugs off Charles’ touch.

“That is not completely true,” Charles settles for honesty, but Peter’s constant protests are starting to get to him.

“Though, I guess, you could have just left on that ice-land to die,” he adds reluctantly. “Does it mean I owe you thanks or something?”

“It’s entirely up to you,” says Charles levelly.

Oh, my, this boy is always a real challenge. His spiky emotions are overboard and overall it feels like a small, yet persistent drill is digging into Charles’ tender skull again.

“Watch out. Force field ahead,” warns them Erik.

It takes Charles another fraction of a minute to digest what was said. Things are suddenly in such state that he just has to stop.

Shaking bangs from his brow, Charles catches his breath and tries to look around. As he slowly inhales, hand propped against the closest tree trunk, everything gets disturbingly blurry. That is bad. It’d better be not far. Emma’s faint voice demands to know what’s wrong. She is intruding, pushing his struggling self aside and shamelessly peeking through his eyes.

_Charles?_

It’s entirely clear that Erik has noticed him stalling their group.

_I’m good to go. Just give me a moment, please._

He projects that back to Erik. In her turn, Emma throws him a telepathic equivalent of a disbelieving snort, but bears his dismissal with languid grace. Although, her presence seems to linger on the edge of his awareness.

“We are almost there,” comes Erik’s hushed voice through the wrist transmitter.

Charles blinks heavily, pushing himself off the tree and moving forward, to Erik and Peter who stopped near a barely gleaming force field stretching between the trees.

 _You worry me_ , Emma delicately taps onto his shields, evoking a tingling sensation. _When was the last time you slept properly? You’re neither here nor there._

It’s left to Emma to pinpoint what he doesn’t want to voice.

“Could you, please, stop being obviously right?” he whispers wryly and it humors her a bit.

Less than a second passes when everything shifts and Charles, his gut feeling sharp as never before, knows that something’s off.

He tugs his hood off, looking up at Erik’s pale face and Peter, both frozen mid-step.

Peter’s mouth is open comically, but no words come out and a brief sweep of his mind reveals the block Charles didn’t recall putting there.

An abrupt shriek of a bird keeps him away from finding out an answer. Emma takes charge, prompting him to dash to the side. Somebody lands right next to him, having jumped from goodness knows where. Blood pulses in his head when Charles rolls over, barely avoiding an attack.

“Stop,” he rasps out and mentally and pushes past resistance, loud and clear.

_We are not your enemies._

A clash with another telepath is the last thing he needs right now. As he frees Erik and Peter from the hold, the world goes out of focus. As though a curtain has been pulled over his eyes.

It comes back. However, when it does, Charles finds himself blinking up through wetness clinging to his lashes and looking up at the dark outline of a person.

“Piss off, Logan,” sneers Erik somewhere to the side and asks worriedly. “Charles, are you alright?”

There’s no muscle that doesn’t hurt when combined backlash hits him full force. Hard, unyielding ground under his body seems like the best bedding ever. Despite being beaten by cool rain, Charles feels hot and his skin feels impossibly stretched. His chest is tight, unbearably so.

When Erik kneels by his side, he sends a ‘ _backlash’_ to Erik, in hope that he understands, and squints up at the dark shape of the man standing behind Erik’s shoulder. Due to light spilling right into his eyes, Charles can see next to nothing. But he detects a familiar mix of black guilt and sorrow, apprehension and astonishment. A familiar _How is he alive? What did that bastard do?_  are banging on his shields. Those are the politest questions circulating in this man’s mind.

Meanwhile, tremors come back paired with an awful disorientating sensation. Erik is saying something, but all Charles is able to comprehend is an echo. His raw mind is shying from their voices, away from the alien touch of the telepath, who is trying to apologize, from projected collective deluge of bewilderment and anxiety.

As real world fades to black, he hears only Emma. She is annoyed with him.

_Will you just let go?_

To her, it comes as a great satisfaction when he finally does.

 

 

***

 

  
_  
_ “Come in,” Charles invites whoever is on the opposite side of the door, tugging his other senses in.

It takes some blinking to chase away black dots again.

To Logan and Jean, he smiles, apologetically.

“I hope, you can excuse my lapse in manners,” he indicates his unwillingness to get up from the cozy armchair, conveniently pushed closer to the transparent outer wall by Erik.

From the other side, he is barricaded by the table with an almost emptied decanter and cooling remnants of a delicious dinner.

Jean, because he tries not to think of her as the Empress, smiles sheepishly. She is less intimidating in person comparing to her image captured on cameras. In truth, with a simple ponytail, and without that needlessly revealing attire she even seems not as tall as her infamous counterpart.

“I’m glad you’re getting better,” she side-eyes her mutely staring companion and sighs. “I can’t apologize enough. I felt you approaching too late and I panicked. The way everything was presented on the net, it made both of us worried.”

She glances at Logan again, but he chooses to respond with a shrug. Though Charles senses that there’s another conversation going on between them, he withholds his curiosity for his own good.

A sun is diving down, caressing his room in gold and red. He meets his second sunset on this planet in much more comfortable fashion and is insanely grateful for that.

“Never mind it. Truly. Something tells me that if Erik were here, he would congratulate you on your extra vigilance,” he smiles softly to dispel gravity and it partially works.

Jean’s posture relaxes, as though a string holding her up gets loose. Yet, Logan scoffs wryly, his displeasure as blunt as a ton of bricks.

“And lord Eisenhardt is?” she inquires politely.

“Ah, he left just before you came. Promised to be back soon,” Charles notices that whenever he’s trying to meet Logan’s eyes, the man looks away.

There’s a distant look in her otherwise lively eyes for a split second.

“He’s downstairs, speaking with your team-mates,” Jean hesitates. “I’d really like…”

“Told you, just go talk to him,” suddenly interjects Logan. “They all are ten times more afraid of you than you of them.”

Here Charles chuckles, startled into a full relief. Jean appears scandalized, her mind probably haunted by horrors Charles fails to imagine.

“That’s right,” Charles vouches. “Only between us: I’ve read his mind and I know that he doesn’t blame you at all.”

One last look and a brighter smile later she’s gone, leaving sullen Logan behind. Previously, Charles didn’t have a chance to look at him properly during their unfortunate encounter in the woods and later at night when he woke up in the house to a deceptively collected Erik, who was just shushing everyone away from his room.

Logan is, well, a very stout man, an exact opposite to lean and athletic Erik, he looks like a picture-perfect troop soldier or a discoverer from the era of colonization. Seeing him in person is quite different from seeing his image from Erik’s perspective. Where Erik saw an untamed, rugged individual he was unwilling to communicate with more than strictly necessary, but whom he trusted regardless, Charles is seeing a veteran, the man in the web of reckoning and grief.

Charles glances at the glass he’s just drunk from, biting his lip slightly.

“Would you like a drink?” he says.

Anything to keep this pleasant conversation flowing, he thinks flatly.

Logan regards him with dark, almost hostile eyes, so Charles starts feeling goosebumps all the way up his arms and back.

“Is it true what Eisenhardt is telling? That you are some reincarnated copy?”

“I’d rather you didn’t put it like that,” Charles says dryly. “I’m fairly tired of being reintroduced as it is. I find that this resurrection business has harsh consequences not because of worldly matters as one might expect, but because of misplaced prying.”

The sun finally hides behind the tree line completely. Shadows grow bold and strong, casting their sprouts everywhere and merging into a swirling tangle of throbbing darkness.  

“Your fancy way of telling me to fuck off won’t work,” grunts Logan stubbornly. “I want the answers. I deserve to know the truth.”

Charles grabs the glass, noting, not surprisingly, that his hand tremors have intensified.

“Listen, please. Whatever you need from me, I can’t give you that,” he pushes the glass away with regret. “It’s plenty obvious that the Charles you want to talk to is not here. Try to understand that. If you will? There is not a trace of any interaction with you in my memory, except for those shared by Erik.”

“Do you know that he was the one who staged everything? Do you know what he did to start the war? About bribery? Threats? Secret ship-building sites? Do you know that his associate manipulated Jean and dragged her into it?”

Of course Charles knows. Erik’s vow of transparency is one of the key reasons that made him stay, made him set foot on Erik’s ship and bid Moira goodbye. It was an ultimate gift any telepath can wish for and Erik has thrown it to him. The grand, totally dramatic and magnanimous gesture. It is so like his old friend. So Erik…

“I assume, you had enough time to figure it out between the two of you. And, yes, I know,” Charles takes a moment to rub his temples, thinking that he needs more of that wonderfully numbing serum Erik gave him this morning.

“Then, why?” Logan’s gruff façade, for once, cracks and Charles hears honest confusion breaking through. “Why are you still with him?”

The real question this man should be asking is why he cares so much about Charles’ life choices. However, burdened by ever-amplifying headache, Charles has neither will nor energy to expand that thought.

But, right now, it seems that Logan has unwittingly lit a lantern amidst that particular undistinguishable corner of Charles’ own soul. It certainly is not love, though it seems very similar. When the light turns full upon it, Charles observes the potent current rippling along every twist and turn. Primal need is also not quite right. He watches it with the most breathless interest, deciding that it is unlike anything he’s observed, unable to label it.

“He can bear my darkest and lowest,” says Charles mostly to himself, marveling, almost inaudibly. “I can bear his in turn. In the end, it comes down to simple math. A perfect equilibrium.”

Scarcely he has finished speaking when Erik strides in, immediately taking him in and asking Charles what’s wrong. Under his glare, Logan retreats and Charles fully sinks into the armchair, his limbs trembling and mind thrown into agitation again.

“He was bothering you,” says Erik scornfully.

“Not a big deal. You won’t believe how confused he is,” mutters Charles half-heartedly.

His telepathy is drawn to the familiarity of Erik’s mind, but Charles’ holds on tight with a redoubled effort. He’s just incapable of wielding it properly at the moment and the risk of hurting others is something he can’t take.

“Their transmitter station and all communications got damaged during the storm two days ago,” tells him Erik, while refilling his glass. “That’s why they never received my warning that we’re coming.”

“Any chance I get a painkiller any time soon?” sighs Charles, accepting the glass.

“There should be plenty of active serum in your blood. I wouldn’t put additional strain on your body in this state if you want to know my professional opinion.”

“But you’re willing to get me drunk. What a nice doctor I have got,” Charles scoffs.

“The best,” Erik smirks and clinks their glasses, holding his gaze.

This, all he discovered about himself, is pushing Charles’ thought process to a dangerous length. Erik was, is and will be the disaster waiting to happen, but, if being fair and honest, this is the sort of precarious harmony Charles has come to enjoy.

 

***

 

  
It became a part of their routine during these two weeks: gathering together before dinner time to practice much-needed concentration.

Kitty used to be stiff and remarkably polite around Jean at first, and she navigated towards Charles should the three of them stay alone in the same room. Peter, on the other hand, was the first to drop any semblance of caution or ceremony, openly staring and asking questions, borderline on either stupid or extremely thoughtful.

“Alright. Done for today,” Peter proclaims after a minute spent sitting in the circle on the cushioned floor.

“Ladies,” he jumps up, mock-bows to Kitty and Jean and turns to Charles. “Prof.”

“Just go,” grits out Kitty and he gawks down at her wide-eyed, pressing his hand to his chest.

“I’m slain, my lady,” he hiccups and disappears with a whoosh which ruffles everyone’s hair.

“Where did he even pick that up?” groans Kitty.

“I’ve seen him frequenting the library lately,” muses Jean. “Maybe, he was watching something.”

Charles lets their conversation fade into background as he gazes outside, at the mass of tall trees and clear bottomless sky, savoring the remarkable feeling of tranquility, which cuts him off from those few minds in vicinity. Despite calm of leisure-filled days spent in the sanctuary, he can sense something brewing among all of them and out in the world. He doesn’t completely understand the nature of this foreboding, he could have sworn he never experienced this before. Yet, he started getting it, here and there. If confronted, he would frankly avow that he doesn’t know what his feelings mean. It is an extension to his telepathy?

 _Is anything the matter?_ flashes through his mind and he turns his head to Jean.

 _Just thinking_ , he replies and nods to Kitty.

“Are you ready to start again?”

Today it’s his turn to walk them through steps, so he unfolds his most basic construct. They materialize on a grand porch with staircase descending onto the green lawn. As far as an eye can see there are old trees and sun-lit lawns, whimsically disorganized. This is nostalgic in a way. The setting itself could be improved in various ways, but he chooses to leave it untouched. A park and a garden, all artistically cut lawns and green sculptures are enviably bright. Everything appears unfairly attractive. Since the mindscape is his Charles senses the deformity faster than Jean.

It’s right behind him, below the house. He can’t detect any danger, yet its’ appearance is understandably unsettling.

When he turns around he sees Emma seated on the top step, her legs crossed and her loose blonde hair shockingly vibrant against darker background.

“Give me a minute,” he tells Jean and Kitty.

Emma regards him jadedly.

“You have got the most boring interior I could imagine,” she laments.

“You mean safe.”

“You wish. I’ve seen weaponized minds of psychic operatives and minds of commoners. But this, this can kill you with tediousness alone. There are guide signs all over the place. As if you’re planning on hosting a geriatric party.”

“That was meant to make you comfortable. Why don’t you join us?” he has repeated this invitation many times, but every time Emma cut him off.

“Don’t change the subject. What is there? Under the house?”

Charles frowns as he makes his way through the house, mentally checking whether everything is in order. Although, his powers can only take him this far until he feels resistance, which resonates deep within his chest.

“You don’t know,” surmises Emma.

“This might only be a manifestation of some troubling feelings,” hypothesizes Charles. “Something I shut off subconsciously?”

As of now, the backlash is still too fresh on his mind for major remodeling.

“Eisenhardt-related jumbo is down there, on the bottom of the lake,” she says when they reappear on the porch. “I figured, I know what it is because you want me to. I have no idea why I was ordained.”

“If the house is bothering you, I can deal with it,” offers Charles.

“Do what you want. I’m just a guest here. Not like I can redecorate as I wish,” she sits down on the stairs, seemingly deep in thought again.

“Emma,” Charles sits next to her, “Erik’s doing what he can. There’s almost nothing modern science cannot cure, and though regeneration of brain matter is particularly hard —“

She grabs his hand. His brain translates her touch being as cold as ice, linking to his memories of her.

“I know this is your misguided attempt to show your support, but, please, stop right now,” she tilts her head peering into his eyes without blinking. “I want revenge. For what has been done to me. Even though my memories have been trashed, this is something I do know. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with a headstrong liberal peacemaker for the time being.”

Charles senses that Jean and Kitty’s presences wink out, just as he decides to apologize for stalling.

“I’m sorry I’m not your avenger,” says Charles sincerely. “I have one myself, so I can see what you mean.”

At least, this brings a thin smile to her lips.

“Take care, Charles,” she tells him unexpectedly warmly and her presence reappears on the other side of the house, thus explicitly translating her desire to be left alone.

Night falls quickly and Charles thinks it would be best to busy himself with reading. On the way to the library though, Peter appears in front of him, beaming.

“Did you hear? The com center’s on!” he raps out with excitement.

“Great,” says Charles, reaching out to Kitty.

She verifies it, inviting him up into the communication center, telling that Erik and the rest are already coming. In spite of Peter’s insistence to offer him a faster way, Charles takes the stairs. His heart-rate picks up, but he chalks it up to exercise. The revived comms mean news. It is too soon to determine what might have happened out there, he tells himself, knowing deep inside that the crisis won’t go anywhere on its own.

He finds out that he is late when the door slides open.

A voice, distorted by countless parsecs separating them from the speaker, goes on:

“our courage and commitments around the world…the security of our hard-won freedom… many years of struggle are behind us… the war…”

“It sounds like they are jamming every major frequency except this one,” scoffs Kitty.

She is nervous, and Bobby, peering over her shoulder, is tense too. Charles briefly glances at Logan and Jean, both standing side by side.

Once he hears the name ‘Eisenhardt’ mentioned, his eyes dart to Erik. Motionless Erik, who’s leaning on the wall, his entire mind unclouded anger and disdain.

“…the enemy which carried such terror into our lives cannot escape… blockade of Valkar… a necessary measure to ensure a durable peace…”

Charles continues to listen as the speaker is listing all Erik’s crimes, his input in the beginning of the war. Not a grain of doubt occurs in Charles when he tries to touch Erik with his mind, to brush off accusations torn out of context.

But then his attempt hits a hard wall. He almost recoils back, badly surprised. In the long history of their turbulent relationship it happened quite a few times. This is not what Charles expected at present, though.

“Aha,” Peter clicks his tongue suddenly, pulling collective attention to himself.

Kitty and Bobby stare as he points a finger in their direction.

“You didn’t know too,” he says. “At least, I’m not alone.”

“Hold on,” Kitty’s mind sparks with agitation while her voice loses its’ pitch. “Why no one told us?”

“Exactly,” Peter echoes her with a deadly serious tone, but she silences him with a single glance.

Bobby starts saying something, then Logan, while Charles, still confused by Erik’s rebuttal, is tuning them off. Through the distance and commotion between them he meets Jean’s wide-blown eyes. It’s plain that she perceived the situation far too emotionally, not that she could be blamed.

And Erik? Charles turns to look, but he is not there anymore.

The thread, signaling Erik’s presence, takes Charles two floors down and onto a large terrace overlooking the forest from above. He hesitates, watching Erik’s dark silhouette against moonless sky. Enough, Charles decides then. He won’t be shrinking from it anymore.

He steps out, into the mute cold of the night.

Erik doesn’t indicate that he’s heard him approach. When Charles stops by the railing next to him, almost by his elbow, he doesn’t even stir. And, as though those tight shields are not enough to warn him off, Erik won’t look at him.

Down below trees are whispering their farewell to last warm days. Charles can barely see those inked pointed tree-tops so dark is the hour.

Erik’s effort to keep him out hurts him physically. It pulls at strings woven round his heart, but it can’t silence him completely.

“If I can do something for you, just ask.”

Cold air bites into him, hence the shivers.

“Charles, don’t. Not now,” Erik sighs a little.

Right at the moment he remembers, very vividly, dismissing Erik again and again, acting out by hurt rather than by good wisdom.

“Fine, call me anytime,” he gets out, because what else he can say.

He lets his hand rest on top of Erik’s, the one clenching the railing, causing dents in tough metal. Nevertheless, when he is about to take it back and break the moment of touch, which is getting too long, Erik turns slightly and covers Charles’ icy hand with his.

“I want to be alone right now,” Erik is visibly collecting himself. “But I need you tonight. Will you come?”

Charles is fighting a flush, very thankful for semi-darkness. Possibly, not certainly.

The plea burst something warm in his gut. Not able to tap into Erik’s mind, he lets go of his reservations and only utters a quite but sure ‘yes’.

Before retreating back to the sparkling discussion everyone is having upstairs, he casts last long look at Erik, almost merged with the mass of blackness.

 

 

 

 


End file.
